


Childlike Innocence

by Nikola_Nial_Keheley



Series: Childlike [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Age Regression/De-Aging, Angst, Big Brother Mycroft, Caretaker John, Cuddling & Snuggling, Family Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Gen, Humor, Imprinting, My cold heart can write fluff, Platonic Relationships, Play Time, SCIENCE!, Science Fiction, Sleepy Cuddles, When did that happen?, Work In Progress, what?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-06
Updated: 2015-01-07
Packaged: 2018-01-07 18:35:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 61,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1123036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nikola_Nial_Keheley/pseuds/Nikola_Nial_Keheley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What makes a person: their genetics or experiences? Sherlock Holmes is a great man, but when an attack leaves a younger version of him in the care of Doctor John Hamish Watson will he become a good man too, or something else entirely?<br/>Due to some issues in my life I will not be updating for April. I apologize and thank you for waiting so patiently.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It had started as a normal day. Well, as normal as a day ever got for John Watson. He had woken up to the odor of rotten eggs and smoke filled vision only to rush down the stairs and find his best friend, flat mate, and live in git Sherlock Holmes standing over a sauce pan billowing arid clouds of dark smoke. Apparently the consulting detective had discovered a compound which could be used to create a portable smoke screen. The tall man had relayed this information whilst jumping around the flat imploring the good doctor to think about all of the possible uses for such a discovery. John Watson took a deep breath which he immediately regretted, as it led to a smoke and smell fueled coughing fit, and begun to open the windows to air out the living space. Once the air was deemed breathable John began his morning ritual of making tea while listening to his flat mate happily chatter about his new discovery. The dark haired man was in rare form that morning; the doctor had feared Sherlock was about to fall into a black mood, as he had not had a case in a week and his violin concertos had become more melancholy as the days went on. This morning however, he was rather jubilant and Watson could not help smiling at the improvement of his mood.

That was of course until he opened the refrigerator and found it lacking in milk.

"Oh, and we're out of milk." The deep baritone intoned from its perch on the coffee table.

"Sherlock, why would you let me make tea when you knew we were out?" The doctor sighed as he slammed the refrigerator door shut.

"John, I have just made an important scientific discovery, and you're worried about a trivial thing like tea," the detective scoffed.

"It's not trivial when you were woken up at four in the morning by your nutter flatmate!" John marched to the coat rack and grabbing his jacket.

"Where are you going?"

"Make a deduction Sherlock! I'm going to get the bloody milk so I can have my bloody morning tea!"

"In your pajamas?"

John looked down to realize that he was indeed in his sweat pants and an old t-shirt, but he was not going to give Sherlock the satisfaction of seeing him slink back to his room to change. "Well it is four in the morning; I don't think I'm going to run into anyone I know at Tescos." With that the doctor slipped on his shoes and slammed the door as he wandered out in the search for lactose.

An hour later John Watson turned back down Baker Street plastic bags in hand. A walk had always been good for his head, and now that the sun was rising he realized that Sherlock had simply been well, Sherlock and that perhaps he had over reacted. Fishing his keys out of his pocket John decided that he would apologize to the crazy brilliant man about his outburst this morning. Approaching the door he suddenly noted that it was slightly ajar. Further inspection showed the frame had been splintered; the door had been kicked in. Plastic bags slipped from his hands allowing their formerly precious contents to be spilled onto the front landing stairs.

Making the effortless slip from doctor to captain John pushed the door fully open and shooed away the wish for his gun. The foyer was dark, the only light streaming through the now open doorway. It fell on a dark lump which lay at the bottom of the stairs in a pool for blackening red. John's felt his stomach drop at he raced forward to the figure. Stooping down he placed two fingers onto its neck. No pulse.

No. Not again.

The world stilled around the two bodies on the hard wood floor; one with dark hair lying in a quickly cooling pool of sticky life blood, and the other blonde and trembling over the first. Tears stung John's eyes as he began to turn the body of the other man. The neck had been broken, most likely from a fall down the stairs, and he had to cradle the head to turn it as the vertebra were no longer fitting together cohesively. Finally the face fell into the rays of light and Doctor Watson let out a gasp.

Not Sherlock.

The body before him was in its mid-forties, its dark face scarred with pocks from a difficult adolescence. No, this was not Sherlock. The doctor's heart swelled with relief as he quickly stood up.

"Sherlock?" John yelled. "Sherlock are you here?"

Silence seemed to stretch out an eternity before a quiet weak voice stumbled down the stairs, "John?"

Jumping over the body John bounded up the stairs, and stopped two steps short of their landing. Leaning against the base of the wall sat Sherlock Holmes in all his dressing gown glory. John was momentarily filled with joy until he truly took in the sight before him. Sherlock's normally pale visage was now practically translucent; sweat drenched his face, causing dark curls to stick to his forehead, but the most troubling sight was the syringe sticking out of his right upper arm.

"Jesus," John breathed as he fell before his flat mate. Reaching into his coat pocket he quickly procured his phone.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock slurred, hazy gray eyes following the doctor's movements.

"I'm getting you an ambulance," John quickly explained beginning to dial 999.

"No," Sherlock moaned, reaching out and placing his hand over the doctor's phone.

"Sherlock this is no time for you to be stubborn, you need to go to the hospit…"

"John, I've been lying here for forty five minutes. It's too late; I don't want to go to the hospital… please."

The tears John had been holding back began to slide down his cheeks. He had witnessed people, many people make this decision on the dessert, and he had given them their wish for comfort as opposed to medical assistance. How could he not do the same for his friend?

"Alright," John squeaked then clearing his throat began again "Alright Sherlock. What do you want then?"

Sherlock sent John a small smile of thanks, "What I want," he explained as he reached up to dislodge the needle from his arm, "is to go back into the flat."

"Alright," John conceded with a nod of his head as he placed his friend's arm around his neck to help him into the open door of the flat. John could tell Sherlock was suffering more than he let on, as the doctor seemed to be shouldering most of the thin man's weight. Still, John was surprised how easily he maneuvered the other man into the flat. Usually when he and Sherlock had done something like this in the past the height difference of the two made it difficult for them to fall into a comfortable rhythm. Now though they fell into a comfortable pace. It seemed they had perfected this strange dance, too bad it would be their last he could not help but think.

John was pulled out of his ominous thoughts by an agonizing scream coming from the man next to him. Sherlock had fallen to his knees and arched his back in obvious pain. John hurriedly dropped to his knees next to the lithe body. They had not made it to the couch like he had hoped, so the floor would have to do.

"Sherlock… shhh Hey I've got you. It's okay." John wrapped his arms around his flat mate and pulled him onto his lap. He could not give a damn if people would talk. Sherlock Holmes was dying and he was not going to let societal norms stop him from comforting his best friend.

"JOHN! IT HURTS JOHN!" the detective screamed gnashing his teeth. John held him tighter rubbing small circles onto his back with one hand, and tucking the curly head of hair under his chin.

Silence fell in 221B as the world's only consulting detective began to still. "Sh-Sherlock?" John breathed, fearing that he was now alone in the flat.

"It's okay," John felt more than heard rumble through his sternum, "I, I think I'm alright for now," he gasped. More silence followed before the rumble came again, "I'm sorry about the milk, John."

"Shut up," John breathed "it's just milk Sherlock you were right. I overreacted"

A deep chuckle followed, "You're just saying that because this happened. I honestly don't know how you've put up with me this long." The detective sighed, "Maybe this is for the best; I didn't know what I'd do when you finally moved out. Now I don't have to worry about it."

"Sherlock you git, I had already forgiven you before I got back to the flat."

"Why?" It seemed even pain could not hide the detective's inquiry driven nature.

"Because I had three years without you, and I was bloody awful at it. You're my best friend Sherlock, I can't imagine my life without you, and now you're leaving me again."

"I am sorry John."

"No, Sherlock its fine. It's all fine." Before he realized what he was doing John had placed his lips on the crown of the consultant's head. His curls were drenched with sweat, but the scent of his expensive shampoo still lingered. The younger man tensed in his lap, and John suddenly noticed what he had done and pulled back. God, did he really need to make Sherlock's lasts moments awkward?

To John's surprise the young man suddenly relaxed, and shockingly wrapped his arms around John's t-shirt clad torso, burrowing his face into the warn fabric.

"I'm… I'm scared John." The admission was muffled by thin cotton, but it brought tears to John's eyes all the same.

"I am too," John confessed tightening his arms around the thin man. Doctor Watson wanted to add more, something to comfort the dying man, but the moment was interrupted by a blood curdling scream. Sherlock's arms tightened around John, pushing the air out of the short man's diaphragm as he buried his head deeper into the ex-soldier's chest. John pulled him still closer to his body, rubbing circles on his back and whispering words the detective would normally scoff at as sentiment, but John desperately hoped brought some comfort. The screams of pain continued until the situation suddenly changed.

The first thing John became aware of was the growing wet spot on his t shirt. Sherlock Holmes was crying the pain must have been immense. Soon though John became aware that Sherlock's arms seemed to be retracting from him even though his hands were still wound in John's shirt, the retraction caused John's shirt to be pulled uncomfortably, but he did not mind, could not with his friend leaving this world. Through both of these experiences John kept his eyes closed, unable to watch his friend's agonizing death. When the doctor's arms seemed to be enveloping a shrinking vessel though, he steeled himself and finally looked down. The screaming had stopped by then, and an eerie silence had fallen over the flat. What he saw shocked him.

Sherlock's navy blue dressing gown seemed to be all that was left of the incredibly intelligent man. The silken garment was splayed about on the blonde's lap, reaching out to the left where his friend's long legs once rested. There was still a weight on John's legs though, and his shirt was still being gripped as though for dear life. Taking a deep breath John pulled back the material to reveal a small tussle of dark brown hair. Flinging the dressing gown farther away uncovered two small arms whose hands had a death grip on the doctor's pajamas, and legs peeking out beneath a ruffled inside out t-shirt. The most extraordinary find was the rise and fall of the small torso; breathing in the syncopated rhythm indicative of sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have recently seen TEH so I am reworking later chapters to fit with what was presented (don't worry there are no real spoilers), and school has started back up so it may be awhile (a week or so) before the next chapter is available. I feel I should also explain that children around Sherlock's age tend to omit or substitute syllables in words which you may see below. I'll stop rambling now. Here is chapter two.

Despite what the consulting detective might imply Captain John Hamish Watson was a man of science. Like most doctors he lived by the idea that if hoof beats are heard in Hyde Park one should think horses not zebras, the most logical answer is usually the correct one. Sitting on the floor of 221B holding what seemed to be a miniature version of his flat mate however, Doctor Watson began to consider how useful this metaphor really was for his life. On one hand he found himself relieved, overjoyed in fact. Sherlock Holmes, his best friend was alive, he could almost cry with happiness. And yet, this situation did not make any semblance of sense. There is no way, absolutely no way that a full grown man could be reduced to the image of himself at the age of, what? Three years. He could almost hear the deep baritone scoff in his head. No, matter cannot be created or destroyed; Sherlock could not have shrunk no matter what seemed to be clinging to his chest. John had nearly convinced himself that this was in fact a crazy dream when he registered the smallest of movements from the figure occupying his lap.

"Sherlock?" The doctor's voice felt rusty from disuse and emotion. Joy and fear were fighting for the stage the sadness had just recently vacated, "Sherlock," He whispered again, "hey did you fall asleep?"

John mentally kicked himself the moment the words left his lips. This was a ridiculous insane situation, and he was asking his flat mate if he had fallen asleep. Really?! Although given the circumstances he supposed he could forgive himself for not knowing where to start.

"No," came the t-shirt muffled response not in the familiar rumble, but a child's lighter pitched croak indicative of crying and sleep. It made sense really, considering how much smaller this body was, of course Sherlock's vocal chords would be shorter, causing his voice to be a much higher. Despite himself John felt a smile pull at his lips. The blatant lie about something as simple as a necessity like sleeping was just so very Sherlock, he welcomed the normalcy despite how distorted. The blonde closed his eyes, leaned his head back against the wall, and let out a breath he did not realize he was holding. Sherlock was alive. Everything was okay, weird, but okay. Unfortunately this feeling did not last long.

The army doctor's arms (which were still wrapped around the small being) were very quickly disengaged. Before John could process this happening the sound of small hurried footsteps heading towards the flat door pulled him out of his short lived emotional respite.

"Sherlock?" John scrambled to his feet just in time to see the tail of a gray t-shirt slide around the doorframe. "Sherlock!"

The doctor had chased the consulting detective all throughout London and was used to keeping a break neck pace to stay close to the longer legged man, however the brunette's current state seemed to slow his momentum to a great degree. As it was John caught up to Sherlock frozen three steps from the bottom of the stairs, gawking at the mangled corpse a meter before him. Initially John had expected the detective to begin his usual investigation; moving to and fro around the body picking up every minute piece of information about the man his carcass could provide. This is not what happened. John stooped down (strange, usually he had to look up) to spy a glance at the pale face. To his shock it was displaying an emotion the doctor had never witnessed on his calculating friend: fear. Pure, unbridled fear.

"Sherlock, hey it's okay. He can't hurt you now." John soothed in his most practiced doctor voice, the one he used to comfort on the battle field, and console frightened children at the surgery. When he received no retort about how obvious he was being the doctor reached out his hand and genteelly placed it on his flat mate's shoulder. This he soon learned was a mistake.

"Don't touch me!" The voice shrieked as the small body pinned itself to the railings of the stairs.

"Sherlo-," the doctor began, but suddenly stopped when he saw the wide gray eyes fixed on him, fear visible in the breath that shook his chest.

"HELP! Someone help me please! Help!"

"Sherlock, listen you're safe, I promise you're…" the doctor stopped his plea when his pint sized friend tried to flee only to be stopped by the now cool blood loch.

"Help!" The frantic prayer fell into hysterics as the boy melted into a pile of fear and tears clinging to the bottom rung of the stairwell. Unable to go forward because of the death before him, and the path back to the flat blocked by a very confused doctor he seemed to try to make himself smaller as though this action would allow him to disappear.

The army doctor too deflated as the uncertainty hit him. His flat mate was suffering from severe distress he knew he had to help him, but he did not know how. Unable to come up with any other course of action Watson leaned over to pick up the blubbering mass at his feet.

"No!" came a raw shriek as small hands tightened around the wooden rung. As gently as he could John reached down and carefully unwrapped the tiny appendages, once this task was complete he stood up with the light load wrapped in his arms. He had prepared to be bombarded by little hands and feet as he made his way back up to the flat, but it seemed the hysterical fit led to an inability to fight back even as the mantras of no and please continued. John was entirely grateful that Mrs. Hudson had chosen this week to visit her sister.

Once back in the flat John made quick work of the lock and chain. The mass in his arms had seemed to settle down considerably so he was taken by surprise when he felt teeth bury themselves in his right bicep. Base reaction caused him to drop the bundle as years in the army allowed a slew of colorful words to leave his mouth, by the time the doctor had control of himself again Sherlock had pulled himself into the small space between the wall and couch. Unsure of what to do and as he had given into his two other instincts sets already John begrudgingly walked into the kitchen to clean his freshly acquired wound. While waiting for the water to get hot so he could sterilize the bite Watson's eyes glanced over to the calendar. It was a Thursday; made sense he had never quite gotten the hang of Thursdays. John's mind would have continued wandering down this path, but it was interrupted by a small sound in the living room.

"Pardon?" The doctor intoned as he rolled up his sleeve. The bite was bleeding, but was not too deep. The blonde was relieved to see it would not need stitches.

"I said," began the small frightened voice, "'when are you gonna kill me?'"

"What?!" the injury was forgotten as John whipped around. While the room was still absent of one albeit short detective, the sound of sniveling was still present. Making his way to the being's last known location John got down on his haunches to peer into the small space. It was dark, too dark to see anything occupying the space, but the soft shuffling confirmed the doctor's thoughts. "I'm… I'm not going to hurt you Sherlock."

"Don't lie to me," the disembodied voice mumbled, "There's a dead man down stairs. He was pushed, and has been down there for a long time. You worked together… didn't you?"

Silence once more filled the flat. It permeated the small space as John tried to comprehend what was being said to him. "Sherlock," he started sounding calmer than he thought possible "I've never met that man, and I would never hurt you. I promise."

"I'm not stupid," the statement was meant to be full of venom, but failed, "I… I saw the skull on your mental with the knife next to it. Is that what you'll use? That knife?"

John did not know how to respond to that. He really did not know how to deal with any of this. Sherlock was acting like they had never met before, like he had never seen his skull, like he was a… John's mouth suddenly became dry, "Sherlock, what's the last thing you remember?"

This time the anger was present in the high voice, "I went to bed last night in MY ROOM, and now I'm here. Its ob'ious that you took me, and you're gonna kill me," he voice broke with tears "stop talkin' and just do it already!"

As the sound of desperate balling filled the air John tried to breathe and found it extremely difficult. His best friend was a child, a child who did not recognize him. He would not let himself think this was worse than watching Sherlock die, than Sherlock being dead, but it was difficult. The Sherlock he knew was gone, and now he was a petrifying kidnapper/killer in the eyes of his terrible, wonderful flat mate. Tears began to fill John's eyes as the prospect of a life without Sherlock filled his mind. No more giggling at crime scenes, fights about the milk (why did he leave this morning? If he had stayed…), odd experiments in the kitchen, violin playing at all hours of the night, no more amazing deductions… John's brain skidded to a halt at that thought, there was a chance, "Sherlock, Sherlock listen to me please," he pleaded, "Listen Sherlock you are amazing, actually you're brilliant, and you can know everything about a person just by looking at them." The tears had calmed down considerably; John prayed that meant the child was listening to him as he continued on, "Sherlock I need you to do that now. Look at me and tell me what you see. Sherlock please, please."

Sniffling could still be heard from the shadow, but it did not sound nearly as hopeless as before. "I… I'm not very good yet," the shaky voice started, "Mycoff just started teachin' me…"

"It's okay Sherlock, it's okay please just try, please." John knew he was betting on a wild card. This Sherlock, had already made some faulty deductions about the situation, but he was banking on the fact that Sherlock may be able to read people better than circumstances. He realized it was a long shot, but it was also his last chance to get any kind of trust from the child.

A breath was drawn in the darkness and John felt his heart jump in anticipation for whatever the results would be. "You… you were in the army, your hair is short, and most people don't keep it that short."

"Good that's good Sherlock." John coaxed the nervous sounding deductions, so different than what he was used to hearing "Yes, I was in the army."

"Where you were, it was hot. Your hands and neck are both dark, but it is from a long time ago. The tan faded but the dark skin is perm'nent."

"Brilliant Sherlock! What else?"

"I… I don't know," the voice became quiet, unsure.

John's heart fell. For a child what Sherlock had done was amazing, but being in the army was no reason for the boy to trust him. He was unsure what he had expected, and had started to get up when a tiny arm shot out of the shadow. "Wait!"

John settled back down and paused while the hand retracted.

"You're sad."

"Yes," John admitted "I am."

More silence, the doctor's ears seemed to strain for an eternity before the voice came again, "John?" It breathed.

A shuffling sound came from the depths of the shadow until a brown head of curls was visible. Stopping at the entrance of his fortress the child sat back still safely out of reach of the doctor. John gasped as he suddenly took in the face before him; the angular cheek bones were now covered in a layer of fat giving the once thin face a rounded shape and somehow the detective's eyes seemed to have become larger. What broke the doctor's heart though was the puffy redness around the eyes, the tear stains dawning the cheeks, and the visible snot under his nose. But before where John had seen fear in the gray eyes the child looked at him now with confusion and what may have been hope.

John gasped "Yes. Yes that's right Sherlock. It's me. It's John." Tears stung at the corners of his eyes. The doctor in him could not help but think both men were going to be severely dehydrated if things continued this way, but his slowly raising hope made it hard to care. "How," he whispered "did you deduce that?"

The child's head cocked slightly to the left as John suddenly felt the familiar sensation of being picked apart. He had not realized how much he missed it until that moment.

"I… I didn't."

John stared back at the child trying (and failing) to mirror his activity. What did he mean he didn't deduce him? "What do you me…?" The question died on his lips as the child emerged completely from his oasis of darkness and dust bunnies. John froze as the child approached him, eyes locked onto his visage. "What are you…?" Once again the question expired in the doctor's throat as a pale hand reached toward his face. Inhaling sharply the child seemed to steel his courage as he closed the remaining distance and placed his hand on the blonde's cheek, gray eyes searched blue under drawn eyebrows.

"John," the child whispered, "you're John." The next thing the doctor knew small arms had encircled his neck. John quickly reciprocated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading; comment/kudo if you feel obliged.
> 
> Have a wonderful day and a fabulous tomorrow!
> 
> Nikola


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone. I know it has been awhile, but I have been having trouble deciding what to do with this story. I originally planned to explore Sherlock's childhood as Doyle never did so in his books; however from what I can tell from the internet series three is actually doing this and thus creating cannon for the show. I am trying to stay away from spoilers until the episodes air in the U.S., but I fear my story may no longer happily coexist with the show as I do not have this information.
> 
> That being said, I am going to post this chapter now and I may go back and re-write it later or just make this an AU if there is no way to make the new information work.
> 
> As before, any spelling mistakes in Sherlock's speech are intentional. I'll stop blabbering now. Enjoy.

John Watson had many strange days, but by 7:53 a.m. this Thursday had easily pushed itself into the number one spot. As he kneeled on the floor hugging his de-aged (That seemed to be the right word. Wait, was that even a word?) flat mate he tried to push that thought out of his mind. Placing his hands on the tiny shoulders he pulled the small body away so he could look his best friend in the eye.

"You know who I am?"

"A'course."

"So you remember then?" The doctor could not help his voice sounding hopeful, "You remember everything?"

Sherlock suddenly looked down at his hands, seeming to find them very interesting. "No," he muttered. The boy must have sensed this was not enough because he continued, "I don't 'member how, but" he lifted his eyes back up to John's with a lopsided smile, "I know you."

"Sherlock, how can you know me without remembering me?"

"Well, you're John. You're…" he hesitated "you're my friend?" The child seemed unsure about this response, as though the doctor may correct his false optimisms at any moment. The sinews of John's heart twisted watching this younger version of the detective so unsure about himself and their friendship.

"The very best." The blonde replied with a smile. He was not prepared to be tackled the rest of the way to the ground by the boy initiating yet another embrace.

"I've never had a friend a'fore." The child whispered. Unsure how to respond to this outward flow of emotion (the adult Sherlock had always worked so hard to hide them) the doctor placed his hand on the child's back, taking up its majority and moving it in a clockwise orientation. He was rewarded by a contented sigh tickling his neck.

Seemingly satisfied that he had been given a full answer the child's hand reached over to brush John's arm, the small body went ridged with obvious concern. John had forgotten the bite in the odd conversation, but suddenly it was brought back to the forefront of his mind.

"It's alright," the blonde assured, "It's not too deep. I'm going to bandage it up and it will be good as new." This insurance did nothing to stem the horror that was spreading through the young body.

"I did that."

"Sherlock its fine."

The chubby face was suddenly buried into the center of John's t-shirt as the child started to frantically speak into the material.

"Sherlock…" John grunted finally sitting back up, "hey Sherlock it's okay really."

"No it's not," The child cried turning his face up towards the doctor with teary eyes. "I was a'scared. I didn't know what was happening and I hurted you. I hurted you John, and now you're not gonna like me anymore. You're not gonna want to be my friend anymore." Tears began to run down the already pink cheeks before the face disappeared back into the sanctuary of worn cotton. "I'm sorry," came the hiccupped voice, "I'm sorry don't hate me John, please don't hate me."

John began rocking back and forth with the precious bundle pulled tight to his chest. "Sherlock I want you to look at me, can you do that?" stifling sobs the dark curls tilted back until the blonde could see two orbs of grayish green. "Alright Sherlock I want you to listen to me. I promise that there is nothing, absolutely nothing that you could do to make me hate you. I will always be your friend." The doctor smiled, "You're stuck with me; do you understand?"

"But," the child sniffed "I bit you and you're bleedin'."

"You were scared Sherlock," the doctor soothed while brushing dark curls off of the damp forehead, "and if anybody ever tries to hurt you I want you to do exactly that. You did very well; you were brilliant."

"Really?" The young eyes lit up slightly. John was still trying to get used to his flat mate's now extremely expressive face (well that along with the fact that he was currently a slightly amnesic child…).

"Yes really." The doctor intoned, "Now no more tears okay? We're going to sort all this out and everything is going to be alright." The army captain realized he had no idea how he was even going to begin to fix this situation, but looking down at the shrunken face of his flat mate he knew he would do anything to help him get back to himself.

"Okay," the child reached up to wipe the final remnants of tears from his large eyes, "thank you John," he sighed.

"Not a problem Sherlock," the doctor intoned while carding his fingers through the long dark locks. Whatever might happen next John was content to find that the pint sized detective was calmed considerably by his words; the arms that had formerly been fighting to hold his torso had now settled and the small body relaxed against him. It was somewhat unnerving to think that his ridiculously tall and distant flat mate was now seeking such comfort from his presence, but his smaller packaging was making it difficult for the doctor to find this situation odd. The soldier assured himself that his need to protect was built out of love for his best friend while his doctor instincts pointed to a possible release of vasopressin, commonly known as the father hormone. 'Sentiment or chemical defect, really John,' a baritone huff echoed through his brain causing an involuntary smirk to grace the doctor's face.

No matter what kind of chemistry was happening in his noggin the question now was how to fix this, and if John were to be frank with himself he really did not know where to begin to re-age the child currently clinging to his chest. Normally when Sherlock did something out of hand the doctor had a short list of allies to help in in his fight; he quickly worked through the short list.

Topping the group was Detective Inspector Lestrade. Typically the DI was called in when the consultant did something which might not be seen as "legal" and he would need to get the department to turn a blind eye, or when he was trying to save the flat from explosion via Sherlockian boredom. John dismissed the thought of calling Greg almost immediately; this situation was defiantly not his division.

Mrs. Hudson was on deck after the detective inspector. She was like a mother to the detective, and this caused her chastisement about decency and cleaning to be taken better than most, but she was out of the city, and would probably be just as stuck as he was. The doctor sighed in resignation; there was only one person who he could foresee being able to help.

"I'm going to call Mycroft," he announced into the stillness of 221b.

"You can't! erupted the clarion voice in his arms.

"Sherlock," John started, "I know you don't want to call your brother but…"

"No. I want to call him," the child explained, "but we can't. I'm not 'llowed."

"What?" The doctor huffed, "Of course you're allowed." He looked down at the bundle in his arms expecting to see deception written on the tiny face, but found its space to be filled with nervous determination.

"Father says I'm too much of a distraction," came a resigned sigh "He sent Mycoff to boardin' school so he wouldn't be bothered by me. I can only call him once a month and I talked to him three days ago. I'm not s'pposed to call again."

John took in the information. Of course Sherlock would think Mycroft was still in school, the doctor had expected this. What he did not anticipate was Sherlock to claim he was not to bother his brother even though he earnestly sounded like he wished to speak to him.

"You want to call Mycroft?"

"A'course I want to call Mycoff; he's my brother. He cares 'bout me, and I care 'bout him."

"Oh," John breathed. It was truly the only thing he could say. Hearing the detective put his thoughts about the British government in such an innocent and honest fashion was quite heartwarming, yet upsetting knowing how their relationship would change over time. "Well, the doctor said after emerging from his thoughts, "You've gone missing haven't you? Don't you think that Mycroft will be worried?"

The child's eye's became distant and John realized he was seeing a miniaturized version of Sherlock's thinking face. John was struck by a sudden thought. What about his best friend's mind palace? The detective's memories of his adult life seemed to be completely gone (except that he "knew" John. What did that even mean?) He had even had difficulty deducing the doctor not half an hour ago. Was all of that really done? What if he could restore his flat mate's body, but not his memory? Unconsciously the doctor tightened his arms around the child, trying to keep even more of his friend from slipping away.

"Okay," John jumped as he came back to the situation at hand. Sherlock looked up at him, mouth set in a resolute line.

"Huh?"

"We can call Mycoff," the child clarified "I don't want him to worry."

"Oh. Right. Yes, good," the doctor nodded slipping his hand into his coat pocket and pulling out his phone.

"Whas that?" little eyes fell on the plastic in the soldier's hand.

"My phone?" The doctor probed looking at the offending device.

The room filled with a glorious laugh unhindered by inhibition or fear, the sound only children seemed able to produce. "John," the child explained through bubbling chuckles, "Thas not a phone."

"Yes it is," confusion colored John's face.

"Really?" the child giggled, "If it's a phone then where are the buttons?"

The doctor stared at the grinning face before him, until suddenly, "Oh! Of course," the grown man felt a grin creep across his own face as he pushed the power button on the thin brick and slid his finger across the glass, revealing his home screen.

A gasp escaped the tiny mouth, but the doctor had not completed his trick yet. Tapping on the call symbol the magician summoned the dial pad, "There are the buttons," he said casually.

Small hands came up to the doctor's examining this conundrum, "Amazing," the child breathed, eyes wide with wonder. "How'd you do that John?"

"Magic," the blonde shrugged. He could not suppress his giggle when he saw the child roll his eyes at his explanation. He stopped though as he watch the child begin to pick out a number, his pale index finger jabbing quickly at the squares and bouncing back up.

"What are you doing?"

"Calling Mycoff's school. You can't even feel the buttons John."

The soldier chortled at his flat mate's finding, "Give it here." He finally managed.

"Why?" The young boy questioned but handed over his treasure (albeit slowly).

"You don't have to enter in the number; I have Mycroft on speed dial."

"You know my brother?!"

"Yep, and I think its best I talk to him first. Let him know what's going on."

"Okay," the child nodded, "But can I still talk to him?"

The doctor smiled "Of course."

Hitting the speed dial number six John placed the phone against his ear sharing an encouraging smile with his flat mate. The line rang three times before the unmistakable voice of Mycroft Homes could be heard through the speaker; "Doctor Watson," the voice sighed "to what do I owe this unexpected… and early call."

"Hello Mycroft… um well" John suddenly realized he had no idea how to explain what exactly had happened to the logical man on the other end of line, "well we had a bit of an incident this morning."

"Oh good heavens. Did Sherlock blow up another microwave?" The palatable grump exposed the elder Holmes' immediate annoyance at being bothered for something so trivial.

"Not exactly," the solider stuttered, still trying to decide how to tell Mycroft that his little brother was now much smaller. His brain continued to sputter until he felt a tug at his sleeve; the pull came from Sherlock who was standing by his side trying desperately to hear both ends of the conversation.

"Please?" The small lips mimed as the body shook with anticipation. As the doctor was stuck as to what to do next anyway, and he felt an urge to reinforce any politeness from his flat mate he passed the phone to the excited child.

"Hi Mycoff!" Stormy eyes lit up with a thrill. John watched the boy continue his side of the conversation with obvious delight and rapid swiftness. "Don't tell Father I called 'cause I just called a few days ago, but I didn't want you to worry. I'm okay. I'm with John, and guess what Mycoff? He's my friend! We're best friends! Do you know him? You must 'cause he had your number in his phone. And Myc his phone is amazing! Mycoff?" The happy dialogue stilled, "Mycoff are you there?"

The child tilted his head to the side, listening to the receiver before handing it back to John, "He wants to talk to you." The small shoulders lifted in a shrug but the doctor could see he was somewhat disappointed.

"'llo?" Placing the mobile back to his hear the blonde waited as he heard tatty breathing on the other end of the phone.

"John," The flustered voice whispered, "I'm going to be there in fifteen minutes."

"We'll be looking forward to it." John was surprised by how calm his voice sounded.

Pushing the end button to terminate the call the doctor looked into the expectant eyes of his tiny comrade. "Your brother will be coming by in about fifteen minutes," he could not contain his smile when the child heard the news.

"Mycoff is coming here?!" The boy's legs spasmed beneath him in the form of an impromptu happy dance.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Microsoft Word thinks that spasmed is not a word, but Google does so I'm going with them.
> 
> So what do you think? Should I just keep going as planned or change it after I see the current series? Do you like where this is going?
> 
> If I continue as it is now next chapter will have Mycroft (or Mycoff, which is now how I see him) Leave a review to let me know if you feel obliged. Thank you for all of the Kudos and have an awesome day!
> 
> Nikola


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You flatterers! Thank you for all of the insight, because of your comments I have decided to continue the story as I had written it sans season three. I felt so over whelmed by your support that I have decided to give you chapter four early. I will not normally update this quickly and it may be a while before I do again, but I just wanted to show my thanks. Here it is enjoy, and thank you again.

John allowed himself a moment to enjoy Sherlock's delight over the idea of seeing his brother, a display he had only glimpsed in the past when an interesting murder presented itself. Suddenly though the realization hit him that neither he nor the excited child was decent for visitors. The t-shirt which had only been fit for sleeping before now had salt puddles, snot stains, and drying blood on the sleeve, the doctor was pretty sure it would be making a voyage to the rubbish bin that very day. While Sherlock, well aside from the fact that he seemed to be thirty years too young was in a shirt turned dress which was in a similar state. Pushing himself up from the floor, John ventured into the kitchen and quickly set about making bread into toast and warm water into tea. Out of habit he reached up and pulled two mugs from the cupboard before stopping himself. The milk which had started this whole problem was down stairs near a quickly stiffening corpse, and Sherlock, a sudden pain rung in his chest. The Sherlock he knew only took sugar in his tea, but this Sherlock (no, he was still Sherlock, just… younger) did not seem in need of caffeine. No tea then.

Crossing the distance to the refrigerator the doctor opened the door to see if there was anything drinkable which was both child appropriate and still in date. After bumping around a few jars of questionable content, John finally found a pint of orange juice which did not seem to be an experiment or biohazard. Grabbing it and the strawberry jam he quickly prepared the toast and poured two glasses of OJ, taking an experimental sip of his first before deeming it acceptable for the child.

Picking up the meal meant for Sherlock John spun around, and nearly dropped the entire thing on the floor. The miniature visage of his flat mate stood not a meter from him. How long had he been standing there?  
"How long have you been standing there?" Voicing the question seemed the only way to get an answer. This attempt however, was in vain as the child seemed to ignore it entirely.

"Wha's that?" He asked instead.

It took a moment for the adult to understand what was being asked. "This," the doctor said once he had gathered his wits, "is breakfast." John walked into the living room, clearing a spot on the coffee table for the dishes. "I want you to eat this." He explained while crossing to unlock the door for Mycroft's convenience. Now that he knew Sherlock would not try to run it no longer seemed necessary to keep it bolted. "I'm going to run up stairs and change. I'll be back in a shake, alright?"

John turned to see the mop of curly hair bob in understanding before he shot up the stairs. The pajamas were hastily replaced with a pair of jeans and a jumper. Digging in his dresser John found a t-shirt; it would still be a horrible fit, but it was a tad shorter than Sherlock's own, so would decrease his chance of tripping, and was not covered in bodily fluids. Reasoning his find tolerable for the current moment John descended the stairs.

"Sherlock," he called, "I found another shirt for you so you can look presentable for your brother's…," the scene he witnessed taking place at the coffee table stopped John in his tracks.

The small body was kneeling close to the table, a crumb covered plate positioned before him. Two petite hands clasped the glass of orange juice, tipping it back to the point where it hid most of his face. After what felt like long minutes the glass' bottom connected with the oaken table with an audible clink. Red jam was smeared over the pale cheeks, painting a clown like smile onto the normally stoic face.

"You ate," the observation came out as a whisper.

The child scrunched his face in confusion. He looked down to his plate, and then back up to his friend, "Wasn't I suppose' to?"

"No."

Sherlock's look of confusion grew, "But, but you told me to eat, and gave me food."

"No, I mean yes, I did ask you to eat and I'm glad you did. I just," the doctor floundered, "I just didn't expect you to."

Dark hair tilted to the left, "Why wouldn't I eat?"

"I…I don't know." He truly did not.

The child shrugged in a very Sherlock way. It was odd watching the mannerism of his best friend performed by the small form. John was pulled out of his musings when he noticed the boy had begun to speak. "Sorry?"

"You said something about my brother earlier?"

"Oh, yes, right. I thought we should clean you up a bit. I've got a shirt here for you, but I think first we should wipe off your face."

A tongue protruded from the sticky lips and began an explorative search around the surrounding area scrubbing at the sweet substance. "There!" came a happy exclamation for a job complete.

John felt it begin in his stomach and push its way up and out of his throat; a bubbly giggle filled the air. He could not help it, the action had been so childlike, so innocent, and yet something he could honestly imagine his adult flat mate do in one of his more juvenile moments. The doctor continued to chuckle as he walked into the loo to receive a flannel and dampen it with warm water. He returned to wipe a very perturbed looking little face until it was slightly pink, but clear of the fruit spread. Bottom lip protruding slightly, Sherlock huffed a sigh, but could not hide his grin when his hair was rumpled by the older man's hand.

"There that's much better," the doctor intoned. He turned around to retrieve the shirt, which had fallen to the stairs in his shock. "Alright now what do you say we put on a clean OH GOD!"

Upon rotating back to the child the doctor received an eye full of his naked flat mate, albeit said flat mate was currently a youngster, but the sight was still a surprise. The stripped body advance upon the gob smacked man until he grabbed the shirt from John's grasp, and slipped it over his head.

"There," Sherlock puffed, "better?"

John managed a nod while trying to debug his eyes. He was a doctor and soldier, and as such had seen many men nude, but that was more of his best friend then he had ever needed to witness. Before John could comment on why stripping like that was not okay, footfalls were heard on the stairs.

"That sounds like your brother," the blonde managed once he found his voice again. The two listened as the stairs continued to creak until it sounded as though the shoes were traversing the small landing. The door calmly pushed open and Mycroft Holmes stepped inside, John's forgotten milk in hand.

A small gasp escaped into the air and John suddenly became aware of something clutching his pant leg. Looking down he found Sherlock clamped to his side, arms wrapped around the doctor's thigh and face buried into his jeans. Whatever reaction John had expected, it had not been that.

"Sherlock, what are you…?"

The small face tipped back until the solider could see the gray-green eyes looking fearfully at him. "He's upset. He's going to be mad at me. He's going to…" The small arms tightened around the trunk of John's leg, "don't let him take me John, please." The face burrowed back into the blue material, but muffled pleading could still be perceived.

"I don't understand what has gotten into him," John apologized while turning back to the elder Holmes, a hand subconsciously reaching down and resting upon the soft curls in a comforting manner, "he had been very excited to see you…"

John let the sentence trail off as he took in the face of the British Government. His complexion seemed to have lightened by two shades, and his features which were normally smoothly composed emulated the shock he must be feeling. Sensing the eyes of John Watson upon him though he soon schooled his expression into its mask like appearance, "I think I understand," Mycroft managed after a moment. Setting down the milk he removed his jacket and then the vest beneath it, shedding two portions of his three piece suit, and then using his umbrella for support lowered himself to a kneeling position on the floor.

"What are you," the doctor was interrupted once again by a look from the man now kneeling on the floor. Choosing not to interfere, John simply waited to see what would happen next.

The red head cleared his throat, and then, "Ahoy Captain Sherlock!" came a crow from the grown man, "First mate Mycroft reporting for duty."

John was beginning to wonder if he had just gone insane, it would explain why his entire morning seemed like an episode of _The Twilight Zone._ He had half convinced himself of this psychosis when he felt the vice grip which had been cutting off the circulation to his foot loosen. The hand upon the thick locks picked up the swivel of the small head as it turned to take in the other man before tilting back up to look at John. The doctor in return looked down to see hesitant eyes gazing into his; a little hand snaked its way into John's and after a silent conversation the child released the doctor's leg and together hands entwined approached Mycroft.

The normally intimidating man waited patiently until the ill clothed child stood eye to eye with him. Here though the young boy paused, contemplating if he should continue. Sensing his trepidation the doctor gave the hand encased in his a quick squeeze, with this vote of confidence excepted Sherlock slowing removed his hand from John's, and before he could change his mind laid both of them on his brother's face. The government official closed his eyes as tiny fingers explored each crease and crevice until finally reaching his hairline. Sucking in a breath he pushed the ginger hair back revealing an old scar.

"Mycoff?"

The normally cold eyes opened with a warmth John had never, in all his years of knowing the Holmes brothers seen, "Aye aye."

A small body collapsed onto the expensive tailored shirt of the man. "Mycoff I didn't know, I thought… it's just… you look like him. I thought he was coming for me."

"I know Sherlock. It was a perfectly sound observation based on the information you were presented."

"But I…I don't understand. This isn't right."

John watched in awe as Mycroft Holmes enveloped the tiny body in his arms, shushing into the hair with a soothing voice, "It is alright, Lockie, I will take care of this. You have my word little brother." Standing from his place on the floor the elder Holmes carried his sibling to the couch where he sat down still clutching him close and continued to mumble. It soon became clear to John that the two were having a conversation in hushed tones, the older asking questions whilst the younger answered them comfortably as he rubbed some of the expensive fabric of the elder's shirt between the pads of his thumb and index finger. This continued for about ten minutes until Sherlock seemed to still, relax, and to John's surprise fall asleep.

With practiced skill Mycroft laid the lithe figure on the couch beside him, but continued to run his fingers through the dark curls. "Before he was born," the seated man began addressing John for the first time in about fifteen minutes, "he was to be named Sherrinford."

"What?!" This was not happening, Mycroft Holmes was not casually telling John about his de-aged flat mate.

"Indeed, it was a family name, passed down for generations, and meant to be his as well. That was of course, until he was born." Twisting a curl between his fingers he continued, "When Mummy first saw him she could not resist naming him Sherlock."

Yes, apparently this was happening. Well, John figured he might as well ride the crazy train for now. "Why was that?"

"Do you know what Sherlock means, Doctor Watson?"

"Can't say I do," the soldier admitted.

"It is of Welsh origin and while it was once somewhat common is now generally unheard. Translated it denotation is 'fair haired'. When my brother was born he had the palest, straight blonde hair, nay I would say it was almost white. Our parents could not resist the chance to brand their child so fittingly." The small smile on Mycroft's face took on a sadder shade, "I'm sure you can imagine their disappointment when his true locks came in."

"No," John stuttered, "I can't say I can. That's, that's terrible."

"Indeed." The somber man agreed, "They did their best not to show it of course, but I was only seven myself, and could sense their discontentment. Sherlock being who he is realized this fact very early in his life."

"Wait, no hold on that can't be right," John's face scrunched in confusion, "I've met your parents and I wouldn't call them anything but doting. It always drove Sherlock mad."

The slightly receding hairline tilted back until the official's eyes met the other man's, his face creasing into what the doctor called the 'really John' expression. "You've met Sherlock's legal parents. Mummy has always been…sentimental, and Stewart is as fond of Sherlock and I as any stepfather could have been with the situation he came into."

"So, Stewart isn't your biological father?"

"Of course not. Didn't you see his ears?"

'Obviously John,' the baritone rumbled in the doctor's head. He mentally shooed it away, "So then your father?"

"He was a terrible man Doctor Watson. Brilliant, but terrible. As I am sure you could pick up from my brother's reaction I took after him aesthetically. His face peers back at me each time I catch my reflection." The elder Holmes sighed, "I'm sure you've noticed by now that Sherlock was a rather different person in his youth than who he grew into."

John nodded to show he followed.

"He was always intelligent, one of the few positives gifted by Father's DNA, but he was also curious and full of energy," Mycroft chuckled softly, "he was always getting into everything, or coming back into the house covered in mud. Mummy found it enduring, her little scientist making discoveries about the world, Father saw it differently. Every mistake he made, every childhood fear, foot print on the carpet, or show of weakness he took as a personal affront. I reason it was that Sherlock took on none of his appearance, he accused Mummy of adultery whenever he did something inappropriate claiming 'the bastard was obviously not his blood.' Then he would punish Sherlock as he saw fit."

"Oh," the doctor clasped his hands together to stop them from visibly shaking with anger.

"Of course he was the one being unfaithful, divorced Mummy when Sherlock was seven to marry his secretary. He wasn't going to leave Mummy and Sherlock with a pound (he still considered me is son so I was to be taken care of at school), but Mummy found a superb lawyer whom she took a liking to; she and Stewart married two years later. I had come back to town for part of the case. I was fourteen at the time but will never forget Father's face when Sherlock's paternity test came back proving he was indeed my father's son."

Doctor Watson stared at the man before him unsure how to react to these sudden realizations about his friend's childhood. Sensing his trepidation the British government seemed to shake himself out of these thoughts.

"Yes, well that is neither here nor there. We must, doctor focus on the problem at hand."

John nodded, happy to see the venerability leave the powerful man's face as he stepped back into a position of power. "He was injected with a syringe," the soldier supplied, glad to help in any way possible, "the reaction took approximately an hour to initiate, leading to a violent reaction which produced what you see before you. I have never seen the likes of anything like this throughout my study or practice in medicine. "

"I would hope not," the government man intoned, "as it is not supposed to exist."

"I take it," the military man stated after a moment with crossed arms, "that you're 'minor position' allows you access to such supposedly fictional treatments."

"It isn't a treatment, at least not in the medical sense of the word. It was meant to be a humane safe guard against future terrorist acts. Never to be used on our soil."

"I'm not following."

"No I suppose that was rather vague. Let me try once more. Do you remember your excursion to the Baskerville facility?"

A dry chuckle rose from the other man, "Is that some kind of a joke?"

"Simply checking your recall Doctor Watson, after you and my brother had your little escapade with that dreadful H.O.U.N.D incident I felt the need to keep a closer eye on the workings of our government employed researchers. We could not let something the likes of that happen again."

Watson nodded in understanding and agreement.

"One of the projects I took personal interest in was the romantically although I must admit aptly named Rewrite." Mycroft paused to sort his thoughts then continued, "The project was headed by three associates, William Bradshaw Ph.D. of botany and human biology, Martin Phillips Ph.D. of psychology, and Dr. Emily Stapleton who is certified to be and is involved with many developments taking place there within."

"Dr. Stapleton mentioned she had fingers in many pies when we first met her," John stated before he drew in a sharp breath, "you mean she had something to do with this?"

A bob of the other's head answered his question. "She continues to be an essential of the organization, yes. Although her interactions with you seemed to have changed her ethical views of many of her… dealings. She was the one to draw my attention to Rewrite in actuality."

"Oh, good. Right, so back to the project?"

"My apologies, the events of this morning seem to have derailed me a bit." A sardonic smile ghosted across the ginger's face, "I am afraid my brother possesses the more scientific mind, but to my understanding Rewrite was based on the idea of antithesis mitosis. That is to say," another pause, "Doctor Watson what makes a man?"

John faltered, "That's rather poetic for a Holmes isn't it?"

"I mean scientifically, what physically makes up a human being."

"Mycroft I'm a doctor. I know the anatomy of a body."

"Well I would hope you do, but what makes up the anatomy? What are the building blocks of every living thing?"

"Mycroft," the doctor hissed, "while I appreciate the science lesson I don't see what this has to do with Sherlock!"

At the mention of his name, the small body stirred, quietly muttering something until his older brother's hand began to comb through his hair again, a contented sigh leaving him as he fell into slumber once more.

"Everything. It has everything to do with him, now I must ask that you keep your voice down. He obviously needs his rest."

John opened his mouth to reply, but bit his tongue. No matter how insane this situation or annoying the elder Holmes the doctor could never bring himself to wake his sleeping flat mate. After all he rarely got as much as he needed. "I'm sorry," he sighed "I'm just feeling a little unnerved by this," his hand gestured to the calm visage of his shrunken flat mate, " I don't know what to do."

"I understand," Mycroft's hand rested in the forest of chocolate locks for a moment before continuing its calming movement, "All living things are made of four elements: oxygen, carbon, hydrogen, and nitrogen. As I am sure you know matter can neither be created nor destroyed, so for antithesis mitosis to occur the excess mass of the living body must be removed from the item of study. In the case of mammals it is excreted through the mouth and nasal cavity in the form of CO2. This compounded with other aspects of antithesis mitosis leads to the reduction of the figure to an earlier physical state, as you can plainly see."

John's mind attempted to process this information, and deemed it rubbish. Yet the proof was lying in front of him, close enough to touch. Squeezing the bridge of his nose to fight against the impending migraine John heaved a sigh, the deep rumble of his friend's voice rattled around in his brain, "When you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains no matter how improbable must be the truth."

"Antithesis mitosis, right. I guess that explains his size, but Mycroft he doesn't remember anything past the age of three…"

"Four," Mycroft cut in.

"What? No Mycroft look at him, based on his size he is about thirty six months of age."

"He was always a little smaller than most," the other man began, "No Doctor he called me 'Myc,' he did not start that until he was four years old, before then I was always referred to as Mycy. This is Sherlock Holmes at four years of age, I can guarantee it."

John could not stop the smile which spread across his face, "He used to call you Mycy? That's so… sweet," the doctor looked down suddenly realizing how private the sight of Mycroft caressing his little brother was. "You were close then? The two of you?"

"I suppose you could say we were, before I betrayed his trust… I must confess I feel somewhat guilty taking advantage of the situation like this. My brother would normally avoid my sight like the plague, yet here I am stroking his hair. It really isn't fair."

Hearing the regret in the other man's voice the doctor quickly spoke, "He needs you now. I mean he wants you here, you should have seen how excited he was to know you were coming Mycroft. There may be some bad blood between you, but right now your brother, your younger brother is taking comfort from your presence. You don't need to feel any shame about that."

"I can see why he keeps you around," Mycroft showed a small honest smile of gratitude. John was beginning to question if any of the Holmes' stoic masks would be in place by the end of the day. "But you are right, while William Bradshaw found the means of instigating the reverse cellular generation; Martin Phillips was in charge of the psychological side of the project. As I have mentioned Rewrite was meant to stop terrorist attacks. The regression of the agitator's body was simply for the ease of apprehension and incarceration. I am sure you can imagine a child would be much easier to control then an adult, but if these individuals were meant to be," Mycroft searched for a word, "rehabilitated, drastic measures would need to be taken."

"What do you mean drastic?" The doctor asked, while he felt skeptical he could feel the hairs begin to rise on his arms.

"According to psychological study the early years of life set the makings of a person's beliefs, personality, cognitive ability,aptitude to form connection to others, and disposition, among other things. The list can go on, but I am sure you understand what I am saying."

John felt himself become numb; his mouth felt thick with cotton, but somehow was able to produce a noise to express that he understood. "They can change someone…"

"By changing their experiences, yes. Phillips created a compound which could block all but the earliest memories. In animal tests he was able to turn snarling guard dogs into cowering mutts in the course of two weeks."

"Jesus," John breathed crossing to his chair and falling into it. This sounded like the plot of a forgotten H. G. Wells story, not something that could actually be happening. Mycroft stopped speaking for a few moments for which the doctor was grateful. He concentrated on filling his lungs with deep breaths, trying not to fall into hysterics. When he had finally collected himself John came to a realization, "You said the dogs were 'rehabilitated' within two weeks. Had they been reverted back to their original age then? Is this reversible?"

"It is," the British government conceded.

"Good. That's good. What are we waiting for then? Let's get your brother back to normal."

Mycroft sat quietly for a moment before he began, "When I found out about the effects of Rewrite, I came in to see the results myself. There were multiple species represented at various points in the experiment, all of which were shown to be interacting with the treatments as well as could be hoped. Phillips was proud of his findings and took my visit to explain that he was ready to move onto human testing. I informed him he would do no such thing."

The man sighed looking at least five years older than he did a moment ago. "Until Doctor Stapleton brought it to my attention I did not know Rewrite was more than a theory," his eyes found those of Doctor Watson, "I know you often question my morals, but I had no intention of letting Phillips manipulate others in such an intense way. In all of their studies it was found that the psychological modifications had a continuing effect. Those experiences had during the program seemed to overwrite the originals. This ability was too dangerous, even for the crown. I stated thus to Philips and he became enraged, he ended our interview with his renouncement of the facility, and has been off the radar until today. As of right now we can only return Sherlock to his physical state, although I fear this would cause more harm than good."

"But wait," shuddered John, "you just said he has shown up on your radar. I know you have skills when it comes to abduction Mycroft, and while I don't normally approve of those methods, it seems like a necessity in this situation."

"I'm afraid he would be unable to help us now."

"Why? I know you parted on bad terms, but I'm sure he would help if you explained…"

"Doctor Watson, Martin Phillips is currently lying at the bottom of your stairs, staining your landlady's fine wooden floors."

The flat fell into uncomfortable silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Silly Mycroft, those elements only make up 96% of living matter. So I'm a teacher and as such I cannot seem to write a tale without throwing in some education; I recently explained erosion with Pokemon (ie why rock type are weak against water type... there is a lesson plan and everything) to some of my students so I guess having a nerdy teacher isn't all bad. Right?
> 
> I apologize for the cliff hanger. I don't mean to leave them with you really; they just happen.
> 
> Anyway what do you think? Do you like caring Mycroft (Mycoff)? Leave a comment or kudo if it strikes your fancy and have a fantastic weekend.
> 
> -Nikola


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you notes:
> 
> Thank you to all of my readers for being patient. I can only write bits and pieces in between my crazy schedule so I can not foresee when I will update again, but know I am continually working on this story.
> 
> Thank you for all of the lovely reviews, they are wonderful and make my day.
> 
> I would also like to take a moment here to thank my beta reader Cassie, who puts up with my rambling questions and fears with unending patience and praise.
> 
> All of you are fantastic.
> 
> Without further ado here is chapter 5.

John Watson sat in his chair staring at the best friend's brother trying to absorb the information he had just received.

"Dr. Phillips, he was the one who did this to Sherlock?"

"I'm afraid so," the elder Holmes sighed moving from the couch to pick up and replace his vest. Leaning over once more he picked up his suit coat, retrieving something from its pocket before positioning it over the small child. Still sleeping peacefully, Sherlock nuzzled under the coat, unconsciously burying himself in the familiar scent.

"But, why?" The doctor questioned pulling his eyes away from the scene on the couch, "we didn't even know him, why would he come after Sherlock?"

"Firstly, he came after the both of you," the government official explained settling into his brother's leather chair, and offering up the object clutched in his hand.

John instantly recognized a capped hypodermic needle, an exact replica to the one Sherlock pulled from his arm with the exception of it still being filled with a blue tinted, but transparent liquid.

"This was on the person of Dr. Phillips. It seems he was expecting to encounter the both of you, but only had the chance to use the one."

"So you're saying…"

"If you would have been here, there is a high possibility that both of you would have found yourselves in Sherlock's current situation."

Watson leaned forward, "but why? It doesn't make sense for him to come after us."

"I fear," the government official sighed, "it may be my fault. When I terminated his position Phillips declared that I would soon regret it. I assumed he would come after me, never did I think he would come after my brother." Mycroft's eyes wandered to the lump under his jacket, "Who knows what he planned to do to him. What devices he derived to manipulate…" The authoritative man clenched his hand, "it is a shame he has already met his end, I can assure you he would have regretted his engagements with my brother."

John swallowed at the vice heard in the other man's tone. Mycroft was usually so controlled in his emotions to hear his voice filled with so much conviction was truly frightening, even if the emotion came from an older brother's need to protect. The air fell into stillness, and John cleared his throat unable to bear it anymore.

"Okay," he began, and then more calmly, "okay, so Phillips will not be able to help, but I'm sure you have other scientists who can crack the code. I mean if someone as plum crazy as he can figure it out. I'm sure you must have someone just as intelligent- if not more. Someone stable minded, who can figure this out, yeah?"

"Indeed," the elder Holmes nodded his head in agreement, "it can be done, but it will take time." With this Mycroft stood, "I will have some of his things from storage sent to Baker Street, and of course," he looked around the room distastefully, wrinkling his nose, "this place will need to be made suitable for a curious four year old."

"Wait," John shot up from his chair, "you want to leave him here with me?"

"Yes," Mycroft turned to face the doctor, "is that a problem?"

"Well for one I have my job at the clinic; I can't be in two places at once."

"I will find a suitable replacement for the duration."

"Then there is Scotland Yard, and Mrs. Hudson will have a heart attack if she sees him like this."

"I will tell Lestrade not to call until further notice, and I will be sure your land lady is informed of my brother's current situation."

"Mycroft, I…" John sighed, letting his shoulders drop, "I told him to eat and…and he did."

The government official lifted an eye brow, "I would say that is an improvement Doctor Watson," he stepped closer to the short man, "why would that cause you reservation?"

John kept his eyes on the floor as he felt the Holmsian gaze analyzing him. He tried not to flinch, but it was always strange when it was Mycroft's eyes burrowing through him. He pulled in a deep breath pushing down the urge to punch the other man in the nose. Even after knowing the brothers for all these years it was still a persisting impulse in response to the elder Holmes which never seemed to fade.

"Ah," the partially suited man intoned, "you fear changing him. That your influence on this younger version of my brother will make him into something new, someone dissimilar to who you know."

"Well that was the point of the project wasn't it?" John felt the words catch in his throat, "remake a person by rewriting their earliest experiences and memories. Who knows what I could do to him," deep blue eyes lifted to find Mycroft's face at this admission.

"True, that was the idea but my brother has always been exceptional. While Sherlock is the first human test subject it had been noted that all the test animals seemed to only recognize their handlers from their early days. From what I can perceive he seems to be very comfortable with you, and in the span of his life, you have only been present for a very short portion."

John nodded, "He said he knew me, but he doesn't remember me. I'm not even sure I understand what that means."

"It is rather peculiar," Mycroft agreed, "but then this is Sherlock. His mind has always defied all understanding but his own. Whatever the reason he seems rather comfortable in your presence, and I feel it would be in his best interest for him to stay with you."

This small speech over, the elder Holmes excused himself as he walked toward his younger brother's bedroom. John began to protest, but was stopped by a slightly coherent mumble from the couch.

"J'hn?"

The doctor knelt by the couch where the dark head of curls began to poke out from under the coat followed by a pale plump face. Blue green eyes blinked heavily against sleep as a small fist came up to scrub against his face. A curl fell down into the drowsy eyes and John found himself pushing it back into place without so much as a thought, "I'm right here. Did you have a nice nap?"

The angelic face took on an indigent expression, "I don't need to nap, napping is for babies," a yawn ruined the boy's argument, but he continued, "I prob'ly don't even need to sleep."

"Now," John chuckled, "let's not get ahead of ourselves. Sleeping will help you to grow up big and strong."

Sherlock cocked his head to the side, without lifting it from the leather upholstery, his warm check sticking to the polished animal skin. The effect was a look of disbelief.

"Trust me Sherlock, I know this. I'm a doctor."

At this the child peeled his cheek from its position, leaving it pink as he sat up allowing the expensive suit coat to pull on his lap, "You are?" He asked in wonder.

The solider felt the words hit him with a pang, but tried not to let his face waver. Of course Sherlock would not remember he was a doctor, he did not remember anything past the age of four. John shook his head and reminded himself that he was lucky that his best friend knew who he was, everything else may come later.

"He certainly is," a voice drawled behind John, "and I expect you to listen to him, is that understood?"

A broad smile broke out on the boy's face, "Myc! I thought you left." Sherlock pushed himself off the couch, running to stand in front of his brother.

Mycroft crouched down to the now much younger Holmes' level keeping his hands behind his back. "I do have to be going," the man paused as the sight of a lower lip sticking out and beginning to quiver. "Now stop your pouting, you're a Holmes. Do you remember what that means?"

"We stay strong," the boy whispered lowering his face.

"That's right Lockie. We stay strong no matter what." A hand came forward to tip the small chin up to where Mycroft offered a smile, "I'll be back soon though, and you can call me whenever you want."

Sherlock fidgeted with his hands, "You won't be too busy?"

"For you? Never." The child's face split into a wide grin, and worry abated he took in the stance of his older brother, namely that one hand was still hidden behind his back.

"Mycoff what are you hiding?" Sherlock tried to peer around the taller Holmes, but Mycroft stood up with surprising grace and turned, continually keeping the item from his brother's sight.

John collapsed on the sofa and watched the strange act play out before him. Sherlock running trying to get behind his sibling, giggling whilst Mycroft continued to evade his brother's every trial, an honest smile pulling at his lips causing lines to form around his eyes. Eventually the dance came to an impasse, Mycroft using John's chair as a barrier between them looking ready to bolt at the smallest twitch of his brother's facial expression.

"Mycroff," Sherlock giggled breathlessly, "what is it?"

The government official watched his brother bouncing, nearly jitter with anticipation as he slowly pulled the object from behind his back. John looked on perplexed, in Mycroft's hand sat a well-worn stuffed bear with matted brown fur. John had found many oddities around the flat over the years (mostly body parts and mold experiments), but the teddy seemed distinctly out of place.

"Boswell!" The excited exclamation was accompanied by the sound of feet scampering as Sherlock approached and plucked the stuffed animal from his brother's hand. He pulled the toy to his chest. Mycroft reached down to ruffle his brother's locks as he promised to come back soon.

With Sherlock happily occupied Mycroft turned back to John who stood as he approached, "I'll have my assistant send over the clothing, and other items you may need." Reaching over he picked up his jacket and pulled it on, brushing out any wrinkles with a sigh.

John stared at the other man for a few seconds before he burst into laughter, causing Mycroft to shoot him a perplexed look. "I'm sorry, but you just pulled a one eighty from playful older brother to diplomat it three seconds flat." John continued to guffaw as the red head looked down and scuffed the toe of his polished leather shoe.

"Yes well, I've always worn numerous hats; just because you haven't seen them does not mean they do not exist."

The doctor continued to chuckle, but tilted his head to show his understanding.

"Speaking of which I do have other responsibilities for the day, such as cleaning up this mess, I trust you can handle things from here?"

John peered over to the child who was now inspecting the cluttered bookcase, the toy hanging loosely from his hand.

"I think I can yeah."

"Good, then I'll be seeing you. Good day doctor."

Watson turned quickly back to the retreating man, "Wait," he was gifted with a backwards glance, "how did you know to bring the teddy with you?"

"I didn't," Mycroft smiled, "It was in his bedroom cupboard, hidden in the far left corner." He paused to take in the look on the doctor's face, "his name is Boswell, and Sherlock would have been lost without him."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh Mycroft. As an older sibling myself I have always imagined that he was a good big brother, but things got mixed up when Sherlock fell into his drug use.
> 
> In A Scandal in Bohemia Holmes tells Watson, "I am lost without my Boswell."This line is meant to pick on Watson as James Boswell was the famous biographer and Sherlock comments constantly about how John romanticizes (or adds color and emotion to) the detective and his work. We get a call out to this line in the Sherlock series when the sleuth says "I'd be lost without my blogger," but I wanted to bring it back by naming Sherlock's teddy Boswell. Man I'm a nerd.
> 
> So what do you guys think? Was it fluffy enough? Leave a comment or kudo if it strikes you.
> 
> Thank you for reading and have an awesome day.
> 
> -Nikola


	6. Chapter 6

After Mycroft's retreat John closed the door and released a breath. He was feeling more confident, there was a plan in place and the power of the elder Holmes was behind it; all he had to do was keep Sherlock alive and give him similar experiences to his first childhood and his best friend would be back soon.

As quickly as it loosened the doctor's chest constricted once more as the pressure of this responsibility settled onto his being. Sherlock was brilliant, how was an average idiot supposed to provide the experiences he needed to become himself again? John closed his eyes and let his forehead fall until it rested on the cool veneer of the door.

"John?" The question was paired with a slight tugging on the soldier's right pant leg. Cracking an eye open the doctor found the tussled head of curls next to him, small fingers gripped the fabric of his jeans as the other arm held the beloved bear to a small chest. Quizzical sea green eyes regarded his with expectation.

The blonde felt his heart swell and shoulders relax as he took in the child next to him emulating both trust and confidence. If Sherlock felt he could do this then he was not going to let him down.

"Yes Sherlock," the doctor smiled as he scooped the boy up in his arms and rested him comfortably on his hip, the action seemed odd in hindsight, but it had been the most natural act while he performed it. Shaking his head to dispel the thought to consider later he turned his attention back to his charge, "what is it?"

The child was examining the makeup of his care giver's jumper, fingering the woolen pattern on the doctor's chest and decidedly not making eye contact.

"Sherlock?" the doctor reached over with his free hand and tilted the tiny chin up until their eyes met again, "is everything alright?"

Large eyes regarded John before the child sighed and leaned into his side, gifting the doctor with a comfortable warm weight as he buried into his side, "Did somethin' happen to me?"

Despite the warmth Sherlock emitted, John felt himself chill at the question. Before he could decide how to answer the quivering sound continued.

"You're my best friend, but you're an adult," the child looked up, "I don't think Mummy would like that."

"No I don't think she would," John conceded after a moment.

"An' Mycoff is old," John had to fight to stifle his giggle as the child continued, "but he's only seven years older than me. If he's old I should be old too, and then there's your phone." The child's face became very serious, "it doesn't have buttons, John."

The doctor nodded to show he understood.

"So somethin' happened to me, 'cause you and Mycoff are old and have phones that shouldn't exis'," the child began to speak more quickly as John felt the tiny heartbeat increase, "Myc knows about you and wants you to take care of me when Mummy would want me to be with her…" The wide eyes became larger as a thought struck the child. "John," the small voice creaked, "John is… is Mummy…"

"What? Oh God, no Sherlock," John soothed carrying the child as he crossed and sat down in his chair. He wrapped his arms around the small body shushing until the quickened breaths evened out. "You're mummy is fine," John explained, "I can talk to Mycroft about seeing her if you'd like."

"Really?"

"Yes really, and I'll have you know you're mum finds me delightful," he flashed a grin at the small form in his arm, "she told me herself" John tightened his hold on his flat mate, "but you're right" he continued after a moment, "something did happen to you."

Soothed by his friend's words Sherlock relaxed again, leaning his cheek against the prickly fabric and beckoning an explanation with his eyes.

John sighed as he collected his thoughts. "This morning you were an adult," small eyebrows rose in speculation, "you were! I swear," the doctor chuckled at the disbelieving look before sobering as he thought about his next words. "I was," guilt halted the blonde's voice, "out, and a very bad man came here, he attacked you and planned to take you away."

"But he didn't take me," Sherlock answered quickly before his face became thoughtful once more, "Why didn't he take me John?"

"Because you fought back. He wasn't expecting that." He peered down at the child and smiled, "he didn't know how brilliant you are."

A blush spread over the pale face which quickly burrowed in John's pullover.

"What are you doing?" John smiled, playfully poking at the tiny ribs until giggles erupted as hot breath through the jumper knit, "If I didn't know you better I'd think you're being shy."

Gray eyes peaked back up at John from a still mostly hidden face. "You really think I'm brilliant?"

"I know you're brilliant," a tan hand ruffled the dark locks, "you are the smartest person I know."

The little head shook side to side as its brow furrowed, "Myc is ten times smarter than me, at least" the explanation was quiet but firm, "I'm not smart."

"Sherlock Holmes," John began gripping the child's shoulders for emphasis, "I never want to hear you say that again. You are amazing, do you understand?"

"I guess," came the mumbled reply.

John had been mentally preparing himself for many things when this conversation began, but not this. To say the least his flat mate had always been proud about his cleverness and intellect, often lording it over those who he saw as idiotic. The act was a bit not good, but this, a young Sherlock who doubted his genius, who could not even begin to see himself as bright was oh so much worse. Watson looked down at the small being clad in an oversized shirt perched on his lap. The head had ducked down and away from John as tiny hands fiddled with one another anxiously, easily voicing the child's unease with the current conversation.

The blonde worked his jaw as he took in the spraining scene. No. This would not do, it would not do at all. Decision made the doctor stood carefully, setting his ward on the worn chair cushion as he crossed to the overfilled bookshelf.

"Wait!" The fearful shriek pierced the too quiet room, "don't leave me," the tone meekly subsided, "please."

John took a steadying breath and turned to find the child plastered against the interior of his chair's nearest arm, attempting to close the sudden gap between them whilst still keeping a barricade between him and the words he feared would fire from his friend's mouth. Small arms clung to Boswell; seeking comfort for the on slot he feared was to come.

"Lock," the nickname slipped from his lips before John had time to consider it, "I'm not going anywhere. I'm just… I want to show you something, alright?"

The child raked his eyes over the doctor seeming to search for some sign of deceit. Finding none he nodded cautiously, and John took this as permission to finish his mission. Scanning the spines of the numerous volumes his eyes finally lighted on the desired text which he pulled down and dusted off.

The year before last Sherlock had given Mrs. Hudson a digital camera for her birthday. The land lady had been ecstatic and much to the detective's distain (although John had noted how the kaleidoscope eyes seemed to lack the usual heat while scolding her) began snapping photos incisively. By the following Christmas she had returned the favor by gifting her boys a scrapbook filled with newspaper clipping of their cases and shots she had taken while at home. This book now lay nestled in John's arms as he quickly retreated to his red chair and best friend.

Settling back in his chair with a puff the doctor turned to find Sherlock burrowing into his side, his tiny body the perfect size to sit comfortably next to his caregiver even in the cramped space as he hid his face once more. John cautiously lifted the child into his lap and placed his hand onto the dusky curls hoping to coax the big gray eyes back out into the world. "Sherlock," he whispered, "I want you to know something. No matter what happens I am never going to leave you. Do you understand?"

"Even if I'm not smart?" The words were muffled as the pale face was still hidden, but John understood the question anyway.

"Even if you weren't smart. I promise." John smiled although his chest ached. Whatever happened in his friend's childhood he had clearly not gotten the entire story form Mycroft. The doctor made of mental note to fix that at the earliest convenience. For now though the little face peered back up at him which John cajoled with a smile. "But," the doctor began maneuvering the volume and boy until both he and Sherlock were in view of the large brown leather cover, "I know for a fact that you are very smart."

"Whas that?" Small fingers reached out to grip a corner of the cover, seemingly transfixed by the up until now unnoticed object and ignoring his friend's remark.

"It's a book," the soldier chided hoping to get a response from the slightly morose boy.

"Ob'iously," the child rolled his eyes, but could not hide the slight grin on his face. "but wha kinda book?"

"It's a scrap book. It has odds and ends from papers, magazines, and photos that people take. It's also my proof to show you how brilliant you are." The blonde sighed, "The man Sherlock, the bad man who did this to you… he wanted to take you and change you so you never became the person in this book."

"Why?"

"Because you Sherlock Holmes are a very important person, you stop bad people and he wanted to stop you from doing that," John knew what he had described was not quite the truth but telling the child in his arms that his beloved brother was partly responsible for his… regression did not seem like the best idea. As the doctor spoke he lifted the cover of the book to the first page containing Mrs. Hudson's loopy scribe. "To my dear boys," John read "all of my love. Mrs. Hudson."

The small face wrinkled in confusion, "who?"

"Mrs. Hudson is our land lady, but she looks after us like a mum."

The child hummed at John's response in a very Sherlock way, and turned the page to find the next littered with paper clippings from their earliest cases together. Most of these (as requested by the detective) did not mention the duos involvement in cases, but Mrs. Hudson had dutifully saved each one regardless, highlighting the sections stating how the criminals were found based on a tip provided by an outside source (mainly Sherlock Holmes).

"Jeff Hope," John was pulled out of his thoughts by Sherlock's utterance.

"What was that?"

"This man,' Sherlock explained pointing to the image of the killer cabbie from their first case with a tiny index finger, "this man his name was Jeff Hope."

John felt his heart start to flutter in his chest. Sherlock remembered, he could recall the cabbie's name!

"You remember," John breathed.

"'Member wha?"

"The cabbie," John sputtered, "from our first case. You remembered his name." The solider smiled brightly but it began to recede when he saw his little companion's face looking back at him in confusion. "You do remember him. Don't you?"

Sherlock stuck out his lower lip in a pout, "No. I just read it. He killed people, it says right here," he jabbed at the yellowing paper.

"You can read," John snorted in disbelief.

"'Course I can read, I'm four and two months," the child lifted an eyebrow at the adult and John heard the internal baritone sneer 'really John.'

"You are bloody brilliant," the doctor chuckled remembering how he struggled to read until he was eight, but quickly sobered. "Sherlock I want you to try to remember everything you can okay? When you're older you have a way to remember things called a mind palace. You have rooms for all sorts of things, and I know that must still be in there somewhere. If you start to recall anything I want you to tell me alright?"

"Alright," the child nodded and John was all at once impressed by how well the child took this insanity that he had woken up to as Sherlock began flipping through the pages once more until he came to the point in the detective's career where his image began to leak into print.

"John!" Sherlock bounced excitedly on the doctor's knee, "look it's you!"

The doctor peered down at the page to find an image of Sherlock and himself after a successful case. John stood in one of his jumpers and simple black coat while Sherlock stood slightly farther up in the foreground stoic in his fitted suit as his dark coat bellowed out behind him. John smiled at the moment captured in ink, but Sherlock seemed perplexed.

"An' that's me?"

"Yep that's you Sherlock."

Small hands turned the page to reveal a similar article and picture, and then again to find another, and another. The flipping became slightly frantic, and out of concern John steadied the trembling hand with his own, "Sherlock… hey Sherlock calm down. What is it?"

"I," the small bodied quivered as it drew a breath, "I look mean… and scary," the curls tilted backward until young gray eyes found the elder's blue, "John am I mean and scary?"

John gazed down at the small face and worked his top lip with his teeth while he considered the question. "That depends," the solider answered slowly, "on who you ask."

The gray stare did not waver pushing John to continue.

"If you are asking me then no. You're my best friend, mate do you really think you would be if you were cruel or if I was afraid of you?"

Sherlock considered this and then slowly shook his head to the negative.

"Here," John said turning the pages until he reached the home photo section, which told a very different story of the detective.

The first image captured the tall thin figure standing in his best dressing gown playing his violin completely lost in the composition and backlit by the windows in their front room.

In the next John resided in the kitchen making three cups of tea on a seemingly ordinary day in the flat.

Another was taken in Mrs. Hudson's flat after a case had wrapped up. An animated detective took up the center of the image, arms outstretched and fingers splayed as he recounted a pivotal moment of a case while John reclined on a nearby couch, tea in hand and grinning like a mad man as he watched his friend.

Sherlock glaring at the skull which rested on his chest.

Sherlock at the entrance of the flat kneeling as he pet Toby, a mutt who he sometimes commandeered from an old client for tracking during cases. A lopsided grin graced his face as the dog licked his chin.

John and Sherlock caught in the midst of a snowball fight outside of 221.

Mrs. Hudson attempting a self-portrait and only getting half her face.

And there were more, at least ten pages were full of domestic images showing the consultant as many never had the chance to see him. After a few moments of examining these images John felt the tension ease out of the small body as he melted back onto John's abdomen.

"You see Sherlock. You only pretend to be like that to scare the bad guys."

"Oh," the boy said after a moment, "so I'm like Batman."

"Yes you're like… wait," John gaped down at the pint sized detective, "you know about Batman?"

"John, everyone knows about Batman."

"Right sorry. I just never pegged you for a kid who read comics."

"I wasn't s'pposed to," the child looked down and tugged at Boswell's ear, "Jenny gave 'em to me."

"Jenny?" John questioned intrigued to find out more about his best friend's childhood, "who's Jenny?"

"She was my nanny. She was from the United States, she bought comics 'cause she liked to read them, and sometimes she let me read them if they were app'opriate." John nodded as Sherlock continued, "she let me keep some'a them, but I messed up." The stuffed ear was now completely compressed by the tense hand. "Father found them and he was angry… really angry. He asked me where I got them an' I was scared and told him Jenny gave them to me. He… he fired her, said she was filling my empty head with dri… dripple," the child huffed with frustration at being unable to form the word.

John cringed at the story, but attempted to help, "drivel?"

"Yeah that," the child nodded solemnly, "it means nonsense or rubbish."

John placed his hand on the small shoulder, thinking the tale was over, but then he heard Sherlock mumble something under his breath.

"Sorry, I didn't catch that."

"I said," the child sighed, "he burned 'um. Threw them all in the fire place and made me help. When they were all gone he… he shook me and told me heroes don't exist."

John's mouth suddenly felt dry as his body began to shake with rage. What kind of a parent does that to their child? The solider clamped his eyes shut and tried to control his breathing. In and out. In and out. In. and out. When he found his voice again he finally spoke. "He was wrong, you know that don't you Sherlock?" He wrapped his arms around the small body and pulled it closer, "your father was an idiot, because I know a hero."

"You do?" The small voice suddenly sounded hopeful.

"Yes I do. Sherlock I have worked cases with you for a long time now, you could have done anything, but you choose to solve problems that no one else can. You've saved people's lives, and you help the police, I'd say that makes you a hero."

Sherlock seemed to consider this for a few moments before a small smile broke out on his face and he wrapped his arms around the doctor's torso. A comfortable silence filled the flat as the two friends took comfort in the simple embrace.

"John?"

The doctor hummed to show he had heard.

"John why do you have a skull?"

"I don't," The blonde chuckled, "the skull is yours."

"Really?!" The boy suddenly excited squirmed off of the jean clad lap and rushed over to scramble up the bookcase, sending notes and scrap paper flying as he quested for the skull resting on the mantel.

Laughing John quickly got to his feet to aid his friend before the child managed to impale himself on the harpoon casually leaning against the fireplace. And just as suddenly as it had left the sense of normality was restored to 221b Baker Street.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Does this chapter make any sense? I feel like I've been looking at it too long and it's just letters on a page right now. Anyway I think this is about as fluffy as my cold angsty heart can get.
> 
> I love the idea of Lil Sherlock being inspired by Bats, as really much of The Batman has been drawn from Holmes. I also imagine Sherlock was reading silver/golden age comics (Batman was much more friendly before the 90's) Role reversals! Yea!
> 
> Please review if you feel inclined. Have a fabulous week and thanks for reading.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again I would like to thank my lovely beta Cassie. Please enjoy.

_How is he? –MH_

John looked from his phone to the child in question. After the doctor had retrieved the precariously perched skull Sherlock had claimed a section of the rug as his own. He now lay spread on his stomach fiercely filling scrap paper with a scavenged pen while simultaneously carrying on a conversation with Boswell and the detective's grinning but forgotten "friend." Anthea [John had long since given up on learning her real name] had dropped by earlier with a box of clothes and left without even a nod, leaving John to wonder how often similar instances happen in her work life for the woman to act with such nonchalance. With less of a fight then he had expected Sherlock changed into the more appropriate attire he currently wore after rummaging through the selection and snatching up a long sleeved blue shirt and jeans.

_He's good, properly dressed and speaking to the skull. It's all very Sherlock-y, well the speaking to the skull anyway. Dressing is always a little more hit or miss. Have you learned anything?_

A short time elapsed before the doctor's phone chimed again.

_We have tracked down some of Phillips' associates, they were unwilling to cooperate at first, but I_ _have convinced them that their assistance is for the_ _best of all involved. –MH_

_Unfortunately their information seems rather unserviceable. –MH_

John leaned back in his chair as the weight of the statement settled into his mind. 'Never texts when he can talk,' the internal baritone quipped.

_Everything okay?_ He typed out quickly.

_I have it under control. I just wanted to check on my brother to be sure there were not any noticeable changes, and inform you cleaners will be showing up within the hour. –MH_

John looked around the biohazard he and Sherlock called a flat. There were innumerous ways a curious child could meet their demise in the small area, as already illustrated by the bookshelf and harpoon incident. His eyes fell back onto Sherlock who, while still lying on the floor had begun to kick his feet and twiddle with his vacant hand.

_Sherlock is looking a bit antsy. I think we'll get out for a bit. It will probably be easier for the cleaners._

After the text was sent the doctor hesitated, but drew a breath and began typing once more.

_Sherlock said some things earlier about his childhood, not good things. I was hoping you could fill in some gaps for me._

John waited a beat, and then another before his phone chimed with an incoming message.

_I was worried something like this may happen. Of course Doctor Watson, but some other time. I am very tied up at the moment. –MH_

_Fine, but we will talk about this._

_I do not doubt it Doctor. Good day. –MH_

Taking the farewell as the end of the conversation John stood up from his chair with an exasperated sigh, no one knew how to dodge questions better than a Holmes. He rolled his neck to and fro relaxing as his spine popped in relief at the movement. Opening his eyes the doctor looked down to see curious gray irises staring back at him, smiling a little as an idea formed in his head John addressed his flat mate, "Fancy a trip to the park?"

A second search of the clothing box was rewarded with the find of a jumper and shoes in Sherlock's current size; it seemed Sherlock was a similar size to what he was the first time around, as his old clothes from storage and thus far fit like a glove. The mini detective easily slipped on the pull over and slipped on his shoes, then suddenly froze.

"Laces," the child murmured under his breath. He began to tangle the offending attachments around one another. Small fingers clumsily working the rope as a small pink tongue slipped between the lips of a very serious face.

John leaned against the wall watching his best friend concentrate on the task at hand. Taking into account that the child was already remarkably observant and could read it was somewhat comforting to watch the small boy struggle with something that his age peers would struggle with as well.

A frustrated huff emphasized with a stomp of the offending shoes drew the doctor back from his musings and into the flat. Sherlock was glaring indignantly at the articles, bottom lip sticking out at the beginning of a pout.

"Hey now, it's okay," John chuckled going to the boy and kneeling down to tie the shoes, "lots of people have trouble with laces. We can work on it later." Finishing his task John looked up at the child who gave him a watery smile in response. With both now ready to go John picked up the small bag he had packed and began to open the door when he was struck by the memory of the corpse awaiting them at the bottom of the stairs.

"Bloody hell," John groaned, squeezing his eyes shut and bringing his hand to the bridge of his nose. How had he forgotten about the dead man who had caused this entire mess? More importantly: when had dead bodies become so normal that they easily slipped his mind? Opening his eyes his saw Sherlock looking up at him expectantly, his flat mate, the one he was used to would have jumped for joy over the idea of a body so close and easy to experiment on, but before him stood a child; a child who had been frightened by the sight of the growing pool of blood and gray pallor of the unnaturally bent broken body. Everything that happened to Sherlock now would override his real childhood experiences, would change who he was and who he will be when restored to his correct age. A bad experience with a body could completely change Sherlock's desire to investigate murder scenes. No, he would not let something so important to the man be taken away from his best friend, not if he had anything to say about it. Shutting the door again he turned at the child who was now bouncing on the balls of his feet in a very recognizable way for many adults.

"Sherlock, do you need to use the loo?"

He was answered with a vehement nod.

"Then… why don't you go?"

"'Cause I don't know where it is," the boy exhaled quickly continuing his agitated dance.

'Idiot,' for once John could not disagree as the rumble reverberated through his brain. Sherlock had not recognized the flat, of course he would not know where the toilet was. Ushering the brunet into the room in question the doctor took the respite to solve the question of getting Sherlock out of the flat without causing him serious psychological trauma. Knowing his time was short, John opted for the quick fix of pulling the deceased scientist to the side of the stair case while throwing about various sheets to hide the carnage. John chuckled to himself grimly, just another day on Baker Street. His task complete, John ascended the stairs to gather his ward. When the doctor poked his head in the door he found Sherlock sitting on the couch swinging his feet.

"All ready now?" John chimed.

"Uh huh," Sherlock agreed, leaping off of the couch to join the blonde who was busy picking up the sack. John quickly checked inside the bag, making sure he had everything they would need for a day out, so absorbed was he in his task that the doctor jumped when something small and warm wound its way around a few of the fingers on his unoccupied hand. To John's surprise he found his hand joined with a much smaller and pale one belonging to Sherlock. While the solider had accepted the fact that his best friend was now a child he was then unexpectedly struck by how tiny he had truly become. John had vivid memories of Sherlock's hands enveloping multiple volumes and tomes at once with ease while he worked tirelessly on a case, but now those same appendages hardly wrapped around his middle and index finger. The thought pulled up a startling emotional weight to his gut, an odd mixture of sadness and commitment settled inside his being: bittersweet. That was the closest label he could find for the sensation.

"John?"

The doctor shook his head only to find an inquisitive chubby face gazing up at him. "Right," John nodded his head affirming to Sherlock and himself that he was back in the here and now, "let's get going, yeah?" He adjusted the sling on the bag, throwing in over his shoulder and then folded his hand around Sherlock's giving it an encouraging squeeze eliciting an excited grin from the curly haired boy. John reached forward with his other hand and opened the door. 'Here goes nothing,' he thought to himself.

XXX

"But John, ducks don't have bread in their natural hab'tat." Sherlock looked up to his elder friend with large eyes, "it might hurt 'um."

"It's okay Sherlock; people have been feeding these ducks bread for years," to prove his point John ripped off a piece of the slightly stale loaf and tossed it into the water, causing the water fowl to swarm. "So for them it is part of their natural habitat, see?"

Hoping to calm his friend's fears over the wellbeing of the animals John offered the bread to the child to examine for himself. The item in question was turned and examined with serious scrutiny before Sherlock carefully pulled off a pinch of crust and tossed it into the water. Upon impact the ducks attack causing Sherlock to giggle with surprised delight, his hands jumping to his face in a sign of glee. John watched it all with a smile, chuckling at his flat mate's obvious joy.

After that display Sherlock seemed to come to the conclusion that the bread would not cause harm to the feathered beings and continued to pull off small pieces of the leavened food to scatter to his awaiting audience, relaxing into John's side where they sat on the grass. The contact still surprised the doctor, but he was beginning to think of it as a child looking for a physical connection to a caregiver instead of an aspect of their friendship. He had seen Sherlock with his mother after all, the elder woman seemed to be a very tactile person, and while the adult Sherlock may find the constant touching irksome, it seemed from his albeit short experience in his younger days the detective might have enjoyed such things, with this is mind he wrapped his arm around the small body. It was a cool autumn day, but the sun had made an unexpected appearance and shown through the deciduous branches, just beginning to let go of their leaves. The two stayed that way until the bread disappeared and the ducks lost interest and left in search of more nutrition.

All was peace and calm for a short time until John suddenly noticed the vacancy under his arm.

"Sherlock?" John scrambled to his feet, spinning in the hopes of finding the tiny detective in the surrounding area. He did not. "Sherlock?" He called again swinging his head to the left and the right. John stopped to listen for a response only to notice how quiet the park was, had it been that quiet before? No, focus. Sherlock, where had he gone? John felt his heart begin to race as he scanned the area. Should he stay where he was and hope Sherlock had only wandered off and planned to return, or go off to look for him? "Sherlock!" The doctor bellowed, but the only sound his ears received was the loud pumping of his own throbbing pulse. Panic. Sheer panic.

John could feel the adrenaline begin to hum through his veins. Find Sherlock, he had to find Sherlock. Scanning the area the doctor decided to investigate a nearby grove of trees first. With this verdict made the blonde quickly began to scale the small hill, whipping out his phone to call in reinforcements.

_Sherlock is missing we're in the park. I don't know what happe-_

Something collided with the doctor's mass. The text was never finished, nor was it sent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will have my first ever fight scene. In the past I have done everything in my power to have physical action take place off the page as I find fights difficult to write and harder still to read, but the novel I am working on has fight scenes so I need to practice.
> 
> What do you guys think? I already know where the story is going, but if you have theories I would love to hear them.
> 
> Thanks for reading and have phenomenal week.
> 
> Nikola


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I'm getting soft. Here I left you all with a lovely cliff hanger and now I'm publishing this. I'm blaming it on the fact that I am sick and need some happiness in my life. Thank you for all of the wonderful reviews and anyone who has chosen to bookmark or leave a kudo; all of these things make my day.
> 
> A special thanks again to my lovely beta Cassie.
> 
> Fun fact: Her very first fandom was Aladdin (back in the day when we had to keep our stories is spiral bound notebooks or if you were lucky on a floppy disc). Via her request I have thrown in a line from that Disney movie [fair warning- I had to tweak it a bit] into this work. Maybe you can find it. It could be a bit like finding the pineapple in an episode of Psych! Or not. Anyway, I'll stop blabbering now. Here is chapter eight.

Something connected with the doctor's thigh with clear purpose. Already high on adrenaline and worry John began to spin around, his mind violently spitting out attack strategies and supplying images of what he expected to find before his eyes could funnel light into his optic nerve for confirmation.

Doctor John Hamish Watson was a man slight in stature, had been ever since his youth. People often took in his physical form, pleasant disposition, and wardrobe of choice and believed him to be an easy target. Those people were fools.

The most dangerous people often come across as the most typical. Those who have earned black belts after years of studying a martial art rarely flaunted their training and knowledge by wearing coats proclaiming the name of their dojo (a common mistake of white belts and other lower ranks) because they know the best weapon is the one no one sees coming.

Similarly John, a former cadet of Sandhurst, had a high competency with weapons of all kinds. Such was expected of any doctor who progressed into a regiment he was trained in hand to hand combat based off of Brazilian Jujutsu provided by the British army, and had picked up multiple fighting moves over the years while running the streets of London with his berk of a flat mate. Yes, Captain John Hamish Watson was a deadly fighter wrapped in innocuous wooly packaging and whoever was attempting to stop his search for Sherlock was about to feel the full extent of his rage.

The solider turned around to face his attacker, crimson already leeching into his vision fed by protective anger and worry only to be stopped numb in his tracks by the sight before him.

"Avast," the little voice crowed, "I be boardin' your ship!"

The doctor felt his legs begin to wobble as he bodily deflated. "Sherlock?" John's mouth was dry as his tongue attempted to form the word, tip sticking to the roof of the cave on the final syllable.

"Aye, tha's Capt'in Sherlock to you," a stick, John now realized it was what he must have felt against his leg, flourished in the air, "A hundred bad guys with sw'ards I've slew-ed, you'll be a hundred an' one!"

The doctor stood staring at the boy in question: feet shoulder width apart, forward hand holding his "sword," knees bent athletically. If John was in a more stable state of mind we would have recalled the time his best friend had reminisced about taking fencing in his youth.

"Smartly man," the child scolded tapping the taller man's leg twice more with the stick, "retrieve your cu'lass a'fore I made you walk the plank."

The graying blonde was suddenly in action, springing onto Sherlock and pulling the boy to his chest. Burying his nose into the dark hair John breathed in the odd mixture of Sherlock's expensive shampoo, and the salty odor of childhood sweat. He squeezed his eyes shut. Safe, Sherlock was safe.

"John?" Confusion was laced into every phoneme.

"What the hell," John stopped drawing a breath as he noticed his entire body was shaking from the unexploited adrenaline, "what the hell were you thinking Sherlock?"

"I…" The high voice warbled before dying off.

John pulled the child back from the embrace, holding him by his boney shoulders so he could look upon the young face, "I called for you," he removed his left hand using his index finger to point at the small chest his voice ghosting out in wisps of disapating worry, growing relief and barely contained anger, "I called and I looked and you weren't… you weren't there and you didn't answer."

John waited for an answer, but only received a wide eyed unblinking stare from the pale boy before him, the playful smile which had originally graced his face slipping until his lips fell flat.

"Do you know how scared I was that… that something happened to you? That you were hurt? Or that someone had taken you and I would never see you again?"

Sherlock's sword fell from his hand, landing in the decomposing leaves on the grove's floor. His chest rose and fell quick and erratically before his gray eyes screwed up. John's heart instantly broke.

"Shhh…" he hushed pulling the boy back to his being where Sherlock began burrowing into the doctor's jumper seeking comfort in the refuge that smelled of Earl Gray, sandalwood, clean linen, and some other scent which the child could only peg as John. "It's alright," Watson shushed allowing his body to fall back from his kneeling position so he and Sherlock could be more comfortable.

"Areyoumad?" The words ran together through the near silent tears so the doctor had to process the utterance for a moment before he understood.

"No. No I'm not mad, I'm sorry. I was just worried, if anything happened to you," unable to finish the thought aloud strong arms wrapped more tightly around the upset lad before pulling back so fingers could rub circles on the shuddering back.

Unsure of what else to do to calm his friend, John began to slowly sway back and forth as he hummed a lullaby from his own childhood, the words long lost to time, but the melody lingering on. Time passed without either taking notice of it until Sherlock began to quiet, his breath evening out until all was still.

"Ambush."

"Ambush?" The doctor repeated unsure where the word came from.

The tear lined face unburied from its home to look up at John, "It was an ambush, thas why I didn't answer."

"Ah," John leaned his head back until he felt the rough bark against his scalp letting the words sink in, "is that how you've slew a hundred men, John poked at Sherlock's sides until the child could not hold back his slight giggle, "by catching them off guard? That's not very sportsmen like."

"It's stra'gy, John," Sherlock wrinkled his nose, "a'sides pirates is not a sport," the voice suddenly became very stern, "it's a way a' life."

John tried not to laugh at his young friend's seriousness. He had half thought Mycroft was joking when he stated that Sherlock had once truly intended to be a pirate, but from the thoughtful look on his face Sherlock saw this as a viable employment choice.

"Of course it is," John nodded seriously, "and I'm sure you'll be a great pirate, but until you man your own ship, perhaps you can tell me when you want to practice your piracy."

Sherlock began to chew his bottom lip, considering his friend's proposition before nodding his head in agreement.

"Good," John smiled running his hand through the child's locks. "Now I am famished. What do you say you and me find something to eat?"

Sherlock nodded eagerly, hopping off of John's lap so the man could get up.

 

 

XXX

After a lunch where John learned that little Sherlock had quite the weak point for chips the doctor and Sherlock headed back towards 221b Baker Street. The sun was setting, painting the cloudy sky a murky red.

"Red sky at night: sailor's delight," John muttered. He chuckled when he looked down at the small boy next to him. Sherlock peered up at John eyebrows furrowed in question of what he meant. The blonde happily clarified, "it's an old saying," he explained, "Red sky in the morning: sailors take warning, red sky at night: sailor's delight. If the sky is red in the morning, then there is a storm coming, but if it is red at night then you should have clear weather." John smiled, "I figured you might need to know that, what with how you're going to captain a ship, I don't want you rushing off into any storms."

Beside him Sherlock hummed as he contemplated this new piece of information. "You could come with me," the shorter of the two said after a moment, "you're a doctor, every ship needs a doctor, an' if you come you don't need to worry abou' me getting caught in a storm," the sentence was paused for a moment as the boy yawned widely "'cause you'd be with me."

John grinned at the mental image of the two flat mates bickering on the deck of a large pirate ship before he turned his attention back to his ward. When they had left the park not long ago Sherlock had taken John's hand (it seemed to be a childhood instinct) and kept step with the taller man. As blocks passed though the child had begun to slow and drag his feet that, paired with the recent yawn led John to a decision. He picked up the light body, positioning Sherlock so his good shoulder bared most of the weight.

"Jooooooohhhnnnnn!" Sherlock moaned attempting to wiggle out of the doctor's hold, "I'm four," the child huffed indigently, "'m not a baby. Put me down," once again the words were interrupted by a yawn, "I can walk."

"Oh hush up," John grinned, "you've had a big day and we'll get back faster if I carry you for a bit. Besides, you should enjoy this while you can. People don't offer to carry you when you get to be my age."

Sherlock snorted, but gave up his fight draping his arms on both sides of John's neck. The conversation died down for a moment before Sherlock began to murmur again, "an' you're a solider. So you… you know how to fight. No one would mess wi' us…" as this thought left his lips Sherlock seemed to drift off to sleep, lulled by the motion of John's step and comfort felt from the older man's body heat. John vaguely wondered if he should worry about the sheer amount of sleep Sherlock had gotten today, but calmed himself by remembering the transformation the detective had gone through and the needs of a younger body. Soft puffs of breath ghosted on John's neck as he turned the corner onto Baker Street.

The black door to 221b had been replaced it an exact replica, and when John inserted his key it turned with ease. Pushing it inward John viewed the entry way, now clear of sheets and more importantly a decaying scientist. Not one bloody fingerprint was left to evidence the events of the morning. If it was not for the bundle in his arms John may have convinced himself it was all some crazy dream, or hallucination brought about by one of Sherlock's experiments he had unknowingly consumed. Softly shutting the door and locking it John mounted the seventeen stairs, skillfully avoided the tenth which tended to whine when weight was applied to it. Reaching the flat the blonde elbowed open the door and stifled a gasp.

The sitting room which had always been cluttered with papers, dirty dishes, and various other …unique items was now spotless. The harpoon had been spirited away, and the coffee table was cleaned until it shined. Stepping in farther John turned to inspect the kitchen. Wide eyed he took in the tiled room where the table and counters had been cleared of any chemicals and seemed to be scrubbed within an inch of their lives. John was certain if he crossed to the refrigerator it would be vacant of any human body parts. The flat was clean, immaculate, just as the doctor had always wanted it. But then, why was his chest throbbing so heavily?

John knew the answer instantly. It was as though they had removed Sherlock. Swept, dusted, and bagged up all the evidence of his existence and tossed it into the bin without a thought. They had even removed him from the air, the odd mix of formaldehyde, chemicals, and slight cigarette smoke replaced with an over cheery flower mixture. The combination of all of it made the doctor's eyes sting, until he heard a soft snuffle by his ear.

No. John reminded himself, Sherlock was not gone. He was there right now, and this... all of this was done for his benefit, to keep him safe until they could bring him back to who he was. John nodded to reaffirm this fact in his mind as he marched Sherlock into the detective's room.

Laying the child down on the blue comforter the doctor began the task of carefully removing the shoes from the boy's feet. Sherlock was so deep though that John soon found he could move him about as needed without the detective becoming aware. Chuckling to himself because the psudo-coma was very much like the after case adult detective, when the doctor would have to spot the lanky man so he did not fall down the stairs John turned down the blankets and cautiously deposited his friend underneath. Leaving to retrieve Boswell from his perch on the leather chair the doctor returned to the room only to find his feet stuck at the threshold.

The kitchen light fell softly onto the bed, illuminating and highlighting how much of it was left empty around Sherlock. The boy was curled up into himself, taking up only half of one of the three pillows placed near the headboard. Clutching Boswell to his chest John willed his feet to move and approached the bed once more, dropping to his knees so he had a better view of the rise and fall of the blankets as Sherlock breathed deeply in slumber. Without his conscious permission the blonde's hand found its way to the ruffled curls once more as he smoothed them down. He was small. So small, and fragile. How was it that the great Sherlock Holmes had once been so helpless? On a logical plane the solider knew that Sherlock had to have been a child at one point, he certainly have not hatched, but seeing him now…. lifting one of his little arms John placed Boswell next to Sherlock's chest where he was quickly cuddled, the child nuzzling his nose into the bear's head. Running his hand through the curls a few more times, John stood. He had some calls to make and food to inventory; after all he had a growing boy on his hands. Reaching the door John turned back to glance at his friend once again.

"Good night Sherlock," he whispered, closing off the room with an audible click of the knob.

Possible information about John's training history was found here:

Wellingtongoose. "Semantics of Healthcare 2 - John Watson's Dual Career - Firestorm overLondon." Semantics of Healthcare 2 - John Watson's Dual Career - Firestorm over London. N.p., n.d. Web. 11 Feb. 2014.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The cliff hanger was a red herring :) Sorry but I've been trying to work through literary devices and have been struggling with that one. I had planned to have a fight scene in this chapter, but then my plans went out the window and we got mindless fluff instead.
> 
> On a completely unrelated note if anyone feels the bug to create some art based off of this story I am completely fine with that, actually it would probably make my year.
> 
> So what do you think? Are you enjoying the fluff? Did you find the Aladdin quote?
> 
> I promise the plot will pick up soon, we just need to get to know the rest of the supporting cast and hope that my fevered mind doesn't veer off track again. It may be a while until I can update again. School is picking up and I really don't want to be sick any longer. Please be patient and thank you for reading. 
> 
> -Nikola


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Thank you for being patient with me. School is crazy right now so it took longer to get this up then I would have cared for. Anyway here is chapter nine.

"John," the ghost of the word whispered into the doctor's ear. Still deep in sleep the man in question slumbered on.

"Jooooohhhnnn," the voice tried again, lingering in the doctor's mind long enough for the tanned face to scrunch and for the body attached to turn onto its side, pulling the comforter farther onto its shoulder in the process.

"John," a nudge which could have been a poke accompanied the call this time, "John wake up, 'is impor'ant."

"Mmmhhnnmm," the sleepy solider answered, just conscious enough to realize a response might allow him to sleep a few more minutes.

"Where's your gun?" When a reply did not come the nudge returned, "John please."

"Top shelf of the cupboard," the doctor mumbled, sighing contently when the questions stopped John buried his nose into his pillow. For a few moments he enjoyed the bliss of hovering between the dream world and that of the real before his eyes shot open, the words finally piercing the veil of unconsciousness as understanding finally dawned.

"What!?" John's upper body shot up from his cocoon, eyes searching the room until they landed on the sleep wild curls of Sherlock who was attempting to push the only chair in the doctor's room towards the cupboard residing on the opposite wall.

"Shhhh!" The child hushed, stopping his task only to put a finger to his pink lips. "We have ta be quiet," he explained continuing the arduous task of pushing the chair without it squeaking against the floor, "he might hear you," came the whispered response.

"He. What do you mean?" The doctor spoke quietly if only to calm his visibly agitated flat mate as he climbed out of bed and lifted Sherlock up by his arm pits, resting the child against him. The small face had somehow paled farther than its normal complexion, and his small body was rigid with tense muscles even under his doctor's warm hands. "Sherlock, what is going on?"

"John, please," Sherlock spoke worriedly, "jus' get your gun."

The doctor sighed, but crossed to the cupboard and reached around until his felt the cool metal make contact with his skin. Pulling it out and checking that the safety was on he showed it to the boy and casually tucked it into the band of his pajama pants before he was frozen by a though. "Lock," he began cautiously, "how did you know that I have a gun?"

"Well 'cause," the statement began confidently, but soon the small face scrunched in slight confusion. John watched slightly concerned as glazed gray eyes drifted from his face to an empty corner of the room, seemingly lost in thought.

"Sherlock?" the doctor questioned, eliciting no response from the child. John walked backwards until his felt the mass of his bed against the back of his knees. He settled down so they would both be comfortable and watched his friend carefully. It had been three days since the detective had gone through "the transformation," as John had taken to calling it, and since then the doctor had taken it upon himself to catalog any changes in his demeanor. He had been hoping to notice Sherlock acting like his older self, but as far as John could tell he had acted like a child, very intelligent, but lacking in any of his adult memories.

But this behavior, this was new. Seconds stretched into minutes, but the small body sat unmoving in the soldier's arms, a dazed expression gracing the recently expressive face. John sat, unsure what to do until he felt the palpitations through his and Sherlock's thin sleeping shirts. Sherlock's heart rate had sped up, quickly joined by his breathing. A sheen of sweat soon graced the small brow over still unblinking eyes.

"Sherlock," the doctor intoned more firmly, his initial hope turning into worry upon viewing the strange physical reaction. Once again his call fell upon deaf ears. Worry turning into panic the doctor turned his flat mate so he could look into his eyes to find unseeing pin prick pupils surrounded by green irises.

Not good.

Very very not good.

"Sherlock," the stout man felt his voice catch a bit in his throat as he brought a hand up to the clammy cheek, "Lock please can you hear me?"

Still unresponsive, John brought his other hand to wrap around one of the small shoulders shaking it slightly. After a moment which felt like eons green circles took refuge behind white eye lids, as the small brow furrowed in pain. "Sherlock?" The doctor breathed, unsure if the newest development was positive or negative.

"John?" The small murmur lifted the older man's heart.

Quickly pulling Sherlock into a close hug, John exhaled shakily allowing his hand to pass through the dark curls as he softly pressed his lips to the edge of his friend's forehead. "Oh, thank God. Are you alright mate?" He breathed, "What happened?"

"I," a small hand found its way into the doctor's shirt, gripping tightly at the loose material, "I don't know." The head of curls pulled back to look into blue eyes, "I, my head it hurts. It hurts bad John."

"Okay, it's okay," The doctor sighed hoping he was speaking truth, "let's get something for your head then, yeah?"

"No!"

John gazed down at the worried face in his arms, "he might still be here," Sherlock explained with a wince the result his own voice reverberating through his already throbbing skull. "I heard him," he whispered eyes still locked on John's, "when I was in my room, he's here. Tha's why I needed…" Sherlock began to zone out once more, but shook his head and let his eyes fall back on his friend. "We haf' ta stay here," he whispered, "he's back an' he's gonna hurt you."

"Sherlock," John pushed some of the curls from the still damp face smiling as his flat mate seemed to lean into the touch, "what are you talking about? Who do you think is here?"

"The bad man John, who… who made me little." The quiet voice became almost inaudible as he continued, "He's back, an' he's gonna… he's gonna make you little too. He can't do that 'cause if you're little you'll forget me," The hand twisted in John's sleep shirt seemed to tighten, "you can't forget me John."

"Oh Lock," John used the nickname easily now, over the past few days it had become a comfort to the child and it seemed to only add to their quickly deepening connection, "That man is never coming back. We're safe from him."

Sherlock nuzzled closer to the elder's chest, "promise?" The question came out as more of a whimper.

The solider continued to stroke the child's hair as an image of the dead clouded eyes of Martin Phillips filled his mind could not stifle the pride he felt bubble in his chest as he remembered that Sherlock was the one to stop him, his brave little Sherlock.

John's hand froze in mid sweep as his processed that thought. Sherlock was many things: a brilliant detective, a git, slight lunatic, and the doctor's best friend, but John had to wonder when he had started to see the child in his arms as his.

"John?"

"Hmm?"

"Do you promise?"

Pulling himself from his thoughts the doctor looked down at the serious face before him a small smile pulling at his lips, "Yes Sherlock, I promise. I'm always going to remember you; I'll always be here for you. Now, I'm going to see about finding something for that head of yours."

"Wait!" Sherlock plasters himself against John clinging to him in much the same way a koala does an eucalyptus tree, "I still heard someone," his tone is hushed by weariness and John's shoulder. "There's someone else here John, I heard the fron' door open."

"I know," John stated, "she lives here too."

XXX

_Sherlock remembered my gun but when I asked him how he knew about it he spaced out._

_Is he alright? Do you need me to send someone over? –MH_

_No. He seems fine now. Just thought you should know._

_Yes, please keep me posted. –MH_

Hearing the bathroom door open the doctor pocketed his phone just as Sherlock rounded the corner.

"Ready to go see Mrs. Hudson?"

Looking uncertain at first the child quickly nodded his head before he could lose his bravery could fail him; smiling John opened the door of their flat so they could descend to the first floor.

Mycroft had been true to his word when he volunteered to relay the news of the incident to Mrs. Hudson, but as the blonde had expected this did not mean he had been off the hook when it came to explaining everything to their forever suffering land lady. The first night after tucking in his pint sized flat mate and finding that Mycroft's people had not only cleaned the living space, but filled the kitchen with edibles John had been drawn to the living room by the buzz of his phone. He answered it to the snuffling of Mrs. Hudson on the other end, in a way it was a relief to talk to the land lady. Mrs. Hudson had always shown a great love for the consulting detective, and speaking to someone other than a Holmes about the situation made it seem somehow more bearable. The solider found himself calming the motherly voice on the other end for about ten minutes before she had gone into matron mode and insisted that she come home a day early from her trip to take care of her boys. It had taken much convincing, but in the end she agreed to give Sherlock more time to acclimate himself before another person he may or may not know waltzed into his life.

Now standing before the door of 221a, and the memory incident not twenty minutes before the doctor hoped he and the landlady had made the right choice of reintroducing the two that day.

Well, it had to happen sometime.

Drawing air deep into his lungs John knocked three times.

"John!" The loving tone was encompassed by the elderly woman's arms wrapping around the blonde's shoulders.

He breathed in her scent, a mixture of baked goods, soft lilac, and something decidedly organic which could only be her herbal soothers. John felt his body relax just being in her presence, somehow having their land lady back made this entire thing more bearable. "Glad to have you back Mrs. Hudson," he placed a soft kiss on her check, "did you have a nice trip?"

"Oh, well the weather was beautiful; it's always nice to get some fresh air into your lungs. You know how it is here dear with all the smog and smoke, bad for the complexion and breathing. You look like you could do with some country yourself John; you're looking a bit flat." She brought her hand up to his face clicking her tongue in distaste at his apparent color. "My sister has been drinking this new tea. Its support to detox your body, just wash all that rubbish out. Come on in and I'll make you a cuppa."

With this task at hand Mrs. Hudson hurried away to the kitchen to put the kettle on leaving the doctor with an open door and an appreciative grin on his face. John's Mum had passed away when he was in university and their loving land lady had filled a space he did not realize had been left when she welcomed him into her life with open arms. He was about to step over the threshold when he felt arms tighten around his leg, looking down the solider smiled at the small mass glued to his thigh.

"You alright mate?"

Silence.

John dropped his hand on the mess of curls, suddenly worried his flat mate had been lost inside himself again, "Sherlock?"

"She's…she's a bit like my grandmummy," Sherlock whispered seemingly wanting to keep their conversation quiet and the woman in question unaware.

"Yeah?" John crouched down so they could carry out the conversation as quietly as Sherlock whished. "Your gran must be pretty great then."

"She's dead."

"Oh," an awkward hush ate up the seconds as John mentally kicked himself for causing it. 'Idiot,' the mental rumble murmured although for the first time John wondered if that would have been his friend's reaction or if he had already began to morph his memory into something else. It had only been what? Three days? And he was already beginning to question his memories of his best friend. What he already honestly forgetting? Converting the child before him and the man he had known for years into something else entirely?

"Boys," Mrs. Hudson called, from the sound she was still in her kitchen, "you can make yourselves at home on the sofa. Oh and Sherlock love I've made some peanut butter biscuits. Are they still your favorite?"

An involuntary rumble arose from the small stomach, causing the child to cover it with his arms and John to grin. "I'd say she know you pretty well," John poked Sherlock's belly to call forth a giggle as the child playfully tried to shelter more of the area with his tiny arms. "What do you say? Ready to get to know her?"

XXX

John sat on the sofa, Sherlock scrunched up into his side. Despite the small body's desire to stay plastered to the doctor's side gray eyes roamed over each wall and crevice seemingly categorizing every item away for later consideration. John watched it all form the corner of his eye as he listened to Mrs. Hudson hum as she gathered items about the kitchen.

It was a bit surreal watching the innocent face observe the area around them. As an adult Sherlock was always careful to hide his thoughts away behind a mask of indifference, often on cases John would find himself thinking Sherlock was utterly bored until they were in the sanctity of a black cab and Sherlock's eyes would light up with an excitement the doctor would believe insuppressible were it not for the proof he had just witnessed. Here though was his best friend at the age of four, muscles twitching under child soft skin displaying surprise, wonder, understanding, confusion, a multitude of emotions as they played upon in face. As had happened more and more over the course of the last seventy two hours a warm hand wrapped around the soldier's index and middle fingers which John carefully folded his hand around without a second thought.

Mrs. Hudson shuffled in placing a platter of baked goods and toast slathered in assorted jams and sliced into strips upon the low laying sitting room table, "you go ahead and help yourself to some nibbles and I'll be back in a pop with the tea," the land lady smiled and scurried back off to collect the drinkables. Sherlock's free hand reached forward to snatch a sugar coated piece of peanut heaven which he quickly drew to his mouth. The warmth radiated from the freshly baked desert, his mouth watering with anticipation.

"Ah, ah, ah, no," John released the child's hands to stop the other's progress to his mouth. Sherlock looked up at him with pleading eyes which had somehow grown bigger with the thought of the biscuit's loss.

"I want you to have some toast first," John explained.

Sherlock looked down at the treat so close to his taste buds and back at his friend, his brow crumpling in confusion, "Why?"

"Because I don't want you to fill up on treats and not get any toast."

"But John," Sherlock countered, "if I eat the toast then I might not have room for the biscuit, and I want the biscuit not the toast. So I should eat the biscuit first," he nodded his head seriously, "it's the ob'ious solution."

John closed his eyes, drew a breath and tried to suppress a chuckle climbing its way traitorously up his throat. He had to admit that the child's logic did have some merit, a great deal in fact, but the doctor in him knew desert for breakfast was a bit not good.

"An'," Sherlock added excitedly, "peanuts have proteen," he drew the last syllable out long letting it vibrate upon his teeth, "an' thas good. So I should eat the biscuit."

"Sherlock," the doctor let his voice drop at the end of the utterance hoping to relay that he was not going to be swayed on this.

"Jawn," Sherlock looked up at the adult through his wild fringe, trapping him with his large begging eyes, "please?"

Damn. John shook his head trying to come to terms with the fact his best friend had always been a manipulative bustard. "Fine," the words left the doctor's mouth in a huff, "you can have it, but after that I want you to eat some toast. Is that understood?"

The morose eyes suddenly sparkled as Sherlock nodded his head enthusiastically, and John removed to hand, freeing the sugar covered concoction.

"Thank you John," Sherlock munched happily on the biscuit, but laid his head against the doctor's side, electing a grin from the losing man and causing him to place a hand on the child's head.

Yep, definitely cunning, but in a cuddly sort of way.

Mrs. Hudson re-entered the room with three mugs in hand, placing one in front of each of her boys and wrapping both of her hands around her own as she settled into a wing backed chaired. "Well, how it is, then?" The land lady asked, taking a sip of her own tea before leveling her eyes at the boy with a warm smile.

John felt Sherlock freeze next to him his chewing paused so he could swallow the mass of sweetened mush on his mouth. He seemed to struggle to clear this speaking apparati for a long while before John heard the small voice next to him come through, "you know me," the child timidly stated.

"Yes, love," Mrs. Husdon answered hopefully, sliding forward in her seat.

John felt the child burrow further into his side. He dropped his arm from the mass of curls to Sherlock's side hoping to convey that he was safe. Nothing was going to hurt him. Safe.

Sherlock nuzzled his side, seeming to get the message. His resolve renewed he continued. "You know me 'cause I live here in the same building as you," he paused, "John says you're like our mum."

The doctor blushed, but when he looked across to Mrs. Hudson he saw the look of endearment the statement brought to her aged face. Beside him Sherlock was also raking his eyes over the elderly woman as he continued, "I know your hip hurts, 'cause a' how you walk, you've traveled all over 'cause a' all the things in here, and I know you make yummy biscuits 'cause I ate one," he hesitated, "but I… I don't know you."

The land lady visibly deflated the smile of her face dropping as her eyes look on the tinge of sadness. Seeing this Sherlock buried his face into John's side breathing heavily and attempting to disappear behind his friend.

"Oh Sherlock," the graying woman cooed abandoning her tea, and making her way over to the sofa where Sherlock was attempting to tunnel under John. Settling herself Mrs. Hudson placed her hand upon the child's back causing him to stop suddenly. Moving it forward and backward the land lady used her self-manicured nails to lightly scratch his back through the child cotton shirt. John watched amazed as his best friend seemed to lose all fight under the gentle hand, bodily sinking into the cushions of the sofa, and leaving his head sandwiched between the doctor's back and that of the sofa. This continued until the small body had stopped its heaving breaths, and Mrs. Hudson had lifted him onto her lap.

"I didn't mean to," Sherlock mumbled looking across the room. "You're nice. I don't think I'd wanna forget you, but I couldn't help it," he looked up at Martha Hudson's face, "are you cross?"

"Of course not dear," she soothed smiling down at the child on his lap even as a tear made its trek down her cheek.

Sherlock tilted his head to the side in slight confusion, "you're crying," he stretched reaching up to catch the tear on his finger and brought it closer to his face to examine. Suddenly his eyes grew wide in realization, "am I hurting you?" He tried to slide off of her lap, but found himself being caught up in the woman's arms instead.

"No, no," she chuckled pulling him closer. "I'm just a little flustered that's all."

"You sure?"

"Yes love," she smiled, and slowly Sherlock smiled back.

XXX

"I didn't realize you studied at Hogwarts."

"What was that dear?"

John smiled taking a sip of his tea, "What you did with Sherlock, that rubbing his back thing. That's magic if I've ever seen it," he jokingly leaned his elbow into where Mrs. Hudson sat beside him.

She chuckled patting the doctor's knee lovingly, "Oh that? That was just an old mother's nature cropping up. Never really leaves you after you've had it." She returned her gaze to Sherlock who was currently exploring the kitchen half eaten biscuit in hand.

"I didn't know you had kids," John smiled at her before catching a glimpse of her crestfallen face "I'm sorry," he sobered, "I didn't realize…"

"No dear, it's quite alright," Mrs. Hudson forced a smile onto her face before turning back to the child who was now emptying her cupboards and climbing inside.

"He's so small," she breathed, "it's so strange to look down to talk to him."

"Hmm, I know what you mean. I've taken to picking him up; it seems easier to talk to him when we're at least at the same height.

"Mycroft said he's working on a cure of sorts, has there been any news? Do you know how long he'll be like this?"

"You're guess is as good as mine, but we've got an appointment today so maybe we'll get some news. Speaking of which," John looked down at his watch, "we should probably be going. Sherlock! Come on we need to get ready."

A clatter of pots and pans sounded from the kitchen as Sherlock came dashing out ladle in hand. John drew in a breath heading in to the kitchen to clean up the mess, when Mrs. Hudson squeezed his arm, "It's alright John you're in a bit of a rush. I'll take care of it this time."

"Mrs. Hudson you are a saint," the doctor pulled her into a tight hug.

"Oh," the land lady smiled returning the hug, "but just this once I'm not your house keeper."

John smiled at the line which had become a joke between the three as he hurried out the door, "Come on Lock we're going to be late."

"Coming!" Tossing the ladle on the sofa Sherlock sprinted out the door but suddenly doubled back and trapped Mrs. Hudson's legs in his arms, "Bye Mrs. Hudson. Thank you for the biscuits, an' sorry abou' the mess."

"Its fine dear, see you later."

Sherlock smiled up at her before heading off. Mrs. Hudson shook her head fondly as she heard her boys dashing up the seventeen stairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to my grandmother who (still) cuts toast into strips for dipping in milk, has the ability to put anyone into a relaxed stupor with just a back scratch, and relayed the genius of eating your dessert first to a young Nikola. I hope all of you have someone so special and loving in your lives.
> 
> So what do you think? Are you suffocating in fluff yet?
> 
> Oh and the Aladdin quote from the last chapter was "one hundred bad guys with swords," just in case you were losing sleep over it.
> 
> Have a great week!
> 
> -Nikola


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finally finished chapter 10!   
> I know it has been forever and I apologize, but I thank all of you for being patient.  
> Also this story has reached another milestone; we have our very first troll. Movin' on up!!!  
> I feel like it is a mark of a well-loved fic when other people start trying to tear it apart and I just want to thank all of you who continue to come back and read. I have a phonological disability and I tend to mix up words which sound similar but have different meanings. I do plan to go back and try to find and fix those issues eventually... but they are hard for me to find because of the aforementioned issue. I'll stop blabbering now. Just thank you all and here is chapter 10.

John's exasperated voice rang from his position half way under the detective's bed, "Sherlock come out here. We're going to be late."

"No!"

Sighing, the doctor attempted to army crawl closer to where the boy had barricaded himself against where his nightstand and bedroom wall met at the edge of his rather large bed, an easy squeeze for a four year old, but as John was finding quite the scrape for an adult.

"Sherlock," he grunted, "you're being ridiculous!"

"No you're being ridic'lous, an' I'm not goin'!" The rebuff came from the darkened crook John's slight build prevented him from reaching.

If the situation had been different the blonde may have viewed the sudden return of his friend's stubbornness optimistically, but as they were expected at an appointment five minutes ago he was more annoyed by the reemergence of this particular trait than anything else. He was considering pulling the bed towards the center of the room to retrieve the child when his pocket began to vibrate. With some rather imaginative maneuvering and wiggling John freed the large rectangle from his trousers, placed it on speaker phone, and let it tumble to the floor with an aggravated huff.

"Hello?!"

"Doctor Watson," the tone funneling through the speaker could only belong to Mycroft Holmes, "if memory serves and I'm quite sure it does we have a meeting with Doctor Stapleton. If you and my brother are done playing I think it would be best to not waste her time and for you to join me in the car immediately."

"I'm," attempting to lift it to better speak into the phone the doctor's head thumped against the bed frame electing a curse from his lips, "we're ready, but apparently Sherlock does not want to go to the H-O-S-P-I-T…"

"I can spell," Sherlock's grumble interrupted from the corner, "don't pat…pat… patro'gize me."

Despite his current annoyance the solider had to bite his lip to stop himself from giggling at the indigent nature of his young flat mate's tone.

A long moment passed before anyone spoke. "John," the elder Holmes voiced from the other end of the call, "I would like to continue this conversation in person. I shall be up momentarily." With that the phone clicked and the screen lit up indicating the end of a call. John sighed and let his head fall to rest on the cool floor. The room lapsed into silence as the two friends' accepted their current impasse.

It was not long before the distinct duet of expensive shoes and umbrella tip were heard climbing the stairs, entering the flat, and making its way into Sherlock's room. John could feel the smirk on the British government's face as he took in the visage of the doctor half crammed under the bed. The imbuing sensation of his eyes on the doctor's bottom half seemed to scoff 'amateur' in his general direction. "Brother mine," Mycroft eventually sighed, crossing the floor and sitting on the plush mattress just to the right of the blonde's head, if the new depression was anything to go by, "we are running late. We mustn't keep people waiting; it is very rude."

Hearing the familiar voice the small lump in the corner trudged forward until appearing to remember why it had taken to the shadows in the first place and determinedly scooted back to its original position. "I'm not going Mycoff."

"Oh," the slightly balding man actually sounded surprised, "but Lockie I promised you that I would fix this, remember?"

"A'course," the small voice answered, sounding slightly intrigued by his brother's line of thought.

"Well this appointment is going to help me understand what happened. If I understand what happened then I can alleviate the situation more easily."

There was a slight pause and John wondered if Mycroft had won a war he had fought for the last twenty minutes with five simple sentences, then he heard a slight sniffle, "I… I don't wanna go Myc."

John could hear the head tilt from the man above him, "And why is that?"

"'Cause I don't."

"Sherlock, that is not a valid reason and you know it."

"I…," another pause, "I don't like hospitals," the admission was nothing more than a mumble.

"Ah, now we're getting somewhere, and why do you have this aversion to them?"

"They're too bright," the small voice began, "an' the nurses smile funny like they don't mean it, it smell like bleach, an' people die there."

"People die every and anywhere."

More silence.

"Their goin' to stab me, with needles Mycoff."

"Sherlock, you've never had a dislike for needles before."

"That's what he did. He was a doctor."

"You mean the man who did this to you," it was more of a statement than a question.

"An' this woman worked with him." The younger sibling matched the elder's tone.

"That is correct."

"So she might hurt me too."

A dry chuckle reverberated above the bed, "not if she values her life."

Sensing the beginning of an uncomfortable gap in communication John decided to speak up. "Sherlock how about this? We meet with Doctor Stapleton and if she needs to draw blood or administer anything I'll look it over first, make sure it's okay."

The small mass John had been focusing on crawled towards him until Sherlock's pale face was visible before the doctor's, "Promise?" Serious ice blue eyes locked onto dark blue.

"I promise," the army man nodded earnestly.

A small hand came forward until it rested before John's nose and a tentative pinky extended. Knowing the gesture from his own childhood, John jostled and joggled until he could free his own arm and connect his callused pinky to that of his best friend, solidifying the oath with the most unbreakable vow a child can make without swapping bodily fluids.

"Friends protect each other Lock and I will do whatever it takes to keep you safe. You know that, right?"

Slowly a lopsided grin grew on Sherlock's face, "I know John."

"Well then," the mattress groaned as Mycroft reintroduced himself to the conversation and stood from his position on the bed, "I think it's time we get going as we are already appallingly late." The man who had been typing on his own phone throughout the conversation looked down at the device now as it pinged to announce a new message, "Doctor Stapleton it seems," he grimaced "has been called away on another engagement."

"No hospital?" John giggled at the amount Sherlock perked up at the prospect.

"No. It seems we will be meeting her at her abode," Holmes senior sighed, but even John could tell it was put on. Looking at the ecstatic expression on the child's face the doctor had an inkling that Mycroft had everything to do with the sudden change of meeting place. "Come on, the both of you," he called as he left the room. The older Sherlock in John's thoughts huffed at the very idea of such causing John's giggle to deepen further.

The real Sherlock who was still very much a child looked at John quizzically but then scrambled out from under the bed. "Come on John! We're late!" In a flash Sherlock was out from under the bed and jumping up and down in excitement but waiting for his friend nonetheless.

John, relieved that the standoff had finally ended, began to push himself backwards only to find that he would not budge. Doctor John Hamish Watson was stuck under his flat mate's bed.

XXX

After squirming enough to send his flat mates into sniggered tears, John eventually freed himself from the pinning prison and the trio were spirited away in the stern of a luxury sedan the color of onyx, finally on their way to their appointment. As per his request Sherlock was positioned between the two men, his small body the filling of a jumper and suit encased sandwich; each of his cool hands had wormed themselves into warmer adult ones as he happily chattered away to his captured audience, his being visibly contented as he soaked in the attention of his two favorite people.

The wheels ate up the distance quickly, but there was a great expanse between the passengers and their final destination. Taking this into account it was not great surprise that as the buildings slowly become sparser and time continued to slip by that the England sky had opened up, releasing a mixture of hydrogen and oxygen upon the shadowy coach. Hearing the chorus of drops drumming upon the metal roof John Watson felt his lips curl up into a smirk. He turned his eyes to his friend who had slowly become less animated as the rain continued its dance from on high. The brunet had begun to recline into the doctor's side still attempting to converse with his older brother about tornados of all things. Despite an admirable attempt to stay conscious the boy's words began to slur lazily as his head sunk deeper into John. Soon the drone of the shower and rocking of the car proved to be too much for Sherlock, and the rise and fall of his chest slowed to the tempo of sleep.

Witnessing this, the solider could not stop a soft fond chuckle from escaping, "If only it was this easy to get him to sleep as an adult," John ran his fingers through the disordered dark locks, "I'd just barricade him into a cab when he gets in a mood, or decides to test how long he can go without sleep."

Mycroft nodded to show his approval before shouldering off his suit coat to cover the young boy as he had done before. Feeling the doctor's eyes on him a slight blush crossed the British government's cheeks, "I assume it would be unwise to allow my brother to catch a cold atop of his current condition," he explained before clearing his throat and turning his attention back to the handle of his umbrella.

"You don't have to do that you know, make excuses. It's okay to care about your brother. Honestly, I find that version," John indicated the jacket with his eyes, "of attention refreshing considering how you typically kidnap those close to him and bug his flat. It's… well… it's rather sweet."

Mycroft sighed faintly but saved his gaze for the umbrella handle he twisted nervously in his hand. "He worshiped me at this age," he finally admitted, "followed me about, found his way into my possessions, questioned me about my whereabouts and just about everything you could imagine." The man paused again, "When father sent me away I was partly relived, at eleven years of age I was persistently irked by the invasion of privacy and constant quizzing brought about by an inquisitive four year old. Yet there are times when I think back to then, how we used to be and I realize just what has been lost with the passage of time and innocence. Having Sherlock's love and admiration once more and knowing it will be ripped away," Mycroft drew a steadying breath, "is a difficult fate to be condemned to."

John let the words reverberate in the care, joining the patter of the shower before fading out entirely. "He's still in there you know," the doctor finally voiced deciding upon his words carefully, "that wild, arrogant, brilliant, arse of a man is hidden somewhere inside of this delightful child. He has to be, or he wouldn't have recognized me."

Mycroft Holmes huffed, "What are you getting at doctor?"

"What I mean is if little Sherlock remembers me, then doesn't it make sense that he is at least partly his adult self, and yet he still seems to admire you. Maybe even as an adult he still had pride for his big brother Mycoff?" John grinned as he let the endearing mispronunciation pass his lips.

Hearing the doctor's theory Mycroft noticeably stilled, even the tip of his umbrella stopped its slow drill into the carpet. After many minutes of contemplation a small murmur of 'perhaps,' left the elder Holmes' lips.

It seemed the remainder of the ride was passed in compatible silence before the more formally dressed of the two cleared his throat, "You texted this morning about a notable incident in regards to Sherlock's health."

"Hmm?" The doctor had turned his attention back to the boy in question who had shuffled closer to John's thigh, sleepily snuffling as he unconsciously repositioned himself closer to his friend. "Oh, right. This morning Sherlock remembered that I have a gun."

"So I recall from your text."

"Yes well, at first I thought it was a sign he was beginning to recall something, but when I asked him he seemed confused as to why he would know, and then he just kind of …stopped." The solider paused, and his hand unconsciously found its way back into the ebony curls an action which did not go unnoticed by the older brother. "At first he just sat there, his eyes glazed over and it was almost like he had gone into his mind palace…"

"But," Mycroft supplied as the doctor had lapsed into silence.

"…But then his heart started beating rapidly, his pupils constricted, and he broke into a clammy sweat. I called his name, tried to pull him out but he didn't react. I thought we lost him Mycroft, that he was gone for good." The hand which had been passing through the dark tresses came to rest on the small lump of a body huddled inside an expensive suit coat as though this action could protect the child from his earlier experience, "when he finally came out of it he said he didn't remember what happened, but his head hurt. It seemed to clear up pretty quickly…"

The government official took in the doctor's appearance and actions. He seemed to be unconsciously trying to shield Sherlock with his body. "It frightened you."

This drew a huff from the shorter man. "You're bloody right it frightened me!" His voice rose with indignation at the other's deduction, causing the mass under his hand to move.

"J'hn?" a sleep groggy voice caused the doctor to freeze and his eye to fall on the source of the inquiry, "Don' be mad Jawn," Sherlock yawned as he brought a hand up to pet the doctor's leg in an attempt to calm him.

The doctor felt his lips turn up at the gesture and brought his own hand back to rest on his friend's head.

"I'm not mad Lock, Mycroft and I were just having a talk," he explained, "I didn't mean to wake you."

"You didn't," Sherlock protested as he climbed further on to his flat mate's lap in an attempt to keep the fingers in his hair, "I've been awake the whole time, I've just been restin' my eyes." Despite these words John could feel the head nestle back into his leg.

"Oh, well that sounds like a good idea. Don't want to tire those eyes out, you might need them later."

"Mmmhhmm"

"How about you go back to resting them and your brother and I will try to keep it below a dull roar?"

"mm'kay," almost instantaneously the child seemed to drop back into a dead sleep. John lifted his eyes to find Mycroft watching the two of them from his side of the vehicle, a smirk on his lips. Heat swept across the doctor's face, but he held the gaze firmly, "What?"

"It seems as though my brother has you wrapped around his finger."

John felt his lips pull into a mirroring grin, "yeah well, he is a cute bugger," his eyes fell back to the child, "and he seems to have that effect on everyone."

Mycroft chuckled, "Indeed."

The rest of the ride was filled with only the sounds of rain pattering on the car's roof.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave a comment or a kudo if it strikes your fancy.  
> Thank you for reading and have a wonderful day!
> 
> -Nikola


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello you lovelies. I have a shorter (but important) chapter for you today. It has been crazy here so I thank you all for waiting and being understanding about my updating schedule. I hope you all enjoy, and please leave a comment or kudo if you feel inspired. Thank you so much to everyone who leaves comments. They truly make my day :)
> 
> Thank you all,
> 
> Nikola

Safe.

Safe and warm.

Sherlock sighed contently as the rain beat on the roof above and a hand continued to work its way through his curls; he knew the appendage belonged to John.

John: his friend. _His best friend._ Sherlock who had always had trouble making friends had gone to sleep lonely and woken up in a strange new world that while disturbing in many aspects had John.

John who smiled at him, laughed with him, took care of him, ran his fingers through his hair, yet there were times when his friend's eyes would steal a sad glance at him, when John seemed far away for a moment before he pulled himself back.

Of course Sherlock knew why this happened. John had told him about a man, a bad man who came and did something to Sherlock, changed him from how he used to be. And Sherlock had known this to be true, had seem the man's face in his dreams, how its mouth curled into a snarling smirk as he had leaned in to whisper something, words lost and murmured in dreams. It was terrifying, still was, but a dream was all it seemed to be. The more Sherlock thought about the face, the more it seemed like something out of a book, or a story he had heard, something that might had happened but did not really happen to him. Mummy had always said he had a very active imagination.

Mummy. He had not thought about her in a long time. He realized this was strange, that he should want to see her and he did, just not as much as he had when he first woke up in this strange place. In the future as John had told him. As the days went by it seemed less and less important, he muzzily wondered if he should tell John, but as the thought crossed his mind he heard the man's voice raise.

"J'hn?" he questioned trying to figure out what could have happened to make his friend angry, but ultimately decided it was not important so long as the man could be calmed again, "Don' be mad Jawn." Sherlock brought his hand up to pat the doctor's knee in an attempt to placate, but also wordlessly encourage the older man to continue to stroke his hair.

"I'm not mad Lock, Mycroft and I were just having a talk," John explained.

Lock. He liked when John called him that, it was like when Myc called him Lockie. Sherlock had always thought that shortening names was something only families did. Did that mean that John was like family? Or was that just something that friend's did? Sherlock had never had experience with friends so it was a possibility.

"I didn't mean to wake you," the blonde continued.

Why did John always assume that he was sleeping? He had not been sleeping; he was just… resting his eyes. Sherlock pointed out his friend's fallacy while he crawled onto John's lap as his earlier petting seemed to have gone unnoticed as the hint it was. Throughout this maneuver he was careful to keep the coat which had mysteriously shown up on him (must have happened while he was resting, only resting) in its place.

It was Mycroft's he could tell by the smell, a mixture of eucalyptus oil ("Used to clear the mind for better thinking," Myc had once explained to his curious sibling) and peppermint. While he pulled the fabric around himself he heard the telltale crinkle of cellophane in the pockets. Sherlock smiled slightly as he sunk back into John. Mycroft still snuck sweets, and his favorites were still peppermint. It was good to know that some things had not changed.

Sherlock had been used to going long periods without seeing his older brother. After Mycroft had been sent away to school he only came home for holidays, and he was only to communicate with his elder sibling through sporadic telephone conversations and letters. He had begrudgingly become accustom to Myc coming back looking and behaving slightly differently than he remembered, although Sherlock had feared that the day would come when his brother would come home and no longer be Myc.

He had not recognized him, on the first day after whatever had happened… occurred. No, he had not looked like Mycroft at all.

Myc had always been "plump" as Mummy called it, a little wider around the middle were Sherlock was on the thinner side even with his now fading baby fat. He had liked it, Myc's extra padding. It made it so he had been warm when he pulled Sherlock against him and a good pillow while he read aloud from books and allowed Sherlock to lie upon him as he listened and inquired about the content. He had also worn glasses, the round wired type which had to continually be pushed back up on his nose after falling forward while he read or thought deeply.

The man who had come when he and John called not three days ago did not look anything like how he remembered his sibling. He had been tall, old (at least thirty), and had a stern face. His body seemed to be neither thin nor fat, but somewhere in between and his hair was receding. Sherlock had recognized the visage that had walked into 221b instantly as his father. It was not until Mycroft had spoken and Sherlock worked up the courage to come forward that he found the definitive proof: the scar.

It had been the reason father sent Myc away. Sherlock had been out in a rainstorm, watching the worms rise and attempting to float leaves on the growing puddles. The excursion had been enlightening, and the young boy had only reluctantly gone inside once the sky became ablaze with lightning. Shutting the door behind him he had rushed to find his brother and as a result had forgotten to remove his muddy shoes at the door ("forgotten" because he was far too old to have trouble untying his laces). This resulted in muddy footprints on the floor, and a livid father.

Sherlock did not like to think about what happened next. Father had been so angry and he had just kept coming. Myc had stepped in, and was rewarded with a blow to the head, a concussion, and a ticket to boarding school.

"You see what caring gets you?!" William Holmes had shouted, his face red with rage, "Caring is not an advantage! You would do well to learn that and stop stepping in for that little snot."

To Sherlock this had only happened a few months ago, but the scar, the evidence of the wound was old and faded. It was what had finally convinced him of two things. One: that this man before him was truly his older brother and two: that something was desperately wrong.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! I have a mixed bag of treats for you in this chapter, hope you enjoy.

"Sherlock," John called softly running a hand up and down the child's arm, "Sherlock you need to wake up now. There are some people who are very excited to meet you."

The boy huffed. Had he not just told John that he was only resting his eyes? Sherlock began to lift his head to remind the doctor of this fact when he became aware that his face was no longer resting on denim, in its place was a warm, slightly prickly yet not unpleasant surface. Puzzled, he rubbed his cheek against it lightly, trying to figure it out, to deduce as Myc would say, what the material could possibly be without the use of his eyes which still craved the darkness. To his surprise the action caused a slight rumble and vibration to travel through the connection of the substance to his skin. Startled, Sherlock shot up quickly, his eyes opening wide despite their earlier protests in sudden apprehension of what he was pressed up against.

John.

Sherlock was in his friend's arms. He swept his eyes over the man's face until they came to rest on a slight discoloration on the soldier's neck. Reaching out his hand to rest upon the pinkish spot Sherlock's pads came into contact with the minor stubble on John's warm skin.

It pulsed again, but this time Sherlock realized it was in correlation with John's chuckle, "you done resting Lock?" The man smiled at the wide surprised eyes before him causing the child to immediately relax and duck his head back into the crook of John's neck.

He was with John. Everything was all right.

"I'll take that as a no then," the doctor sighed.

At first the brunet thought his friend was upset by his choice, but then he could not seem to bring himself to worry, he was content to be where he was. His head fit under John's jaw perfectly, and with jumper clad arms wrapped around him it was like being in a John bubble surrounded be his warmth, smell, and John-ness. It was the most comfortable, most protected Sherlock could ever remember feeling and he did not want to give it up without need.

"I think he's feeling a little shy," John whispered.

An incorrect assumption, but one Sherlock did not feel the need to correct if he was allowed to stay in his current position. This in mind he buried his face further into John to give some merit to his idea, it seemed to be working until the person at the other end of the conversation spoke up.

"Even if that was true which I doubt, we have not come all this way for my brother to decide he does not care to socialize," the voice, Mycroft, Sherlock realized began to speak to him, "come now Sherlock, we have traveled a very long way. You need to do as requested."

Logically, Sherlock knew his brother was correct, and a part of him almost like a distant muffled voice urged him to listen, but a larger part was too content with being pressed up against John.

"Don't wanna." He wrapped his arms around John's neck to farther enforce his point.

"Oh is that so?" Based on the volume of his voice Sherlock became aware that his brother was now much closer, practically looming over him. "Well, brother mine it seems you've left me no choice."

The small body tensed. No. He wouldn't. Not here.

Without preamble both Sherlock's sides were simultaneously jabbed. The initial attack had been a shock, but the continued barrage was what sent the brunet over the edge.

Unable to hold his ground any longer Sherlock was forced to release John's neck as a shriek of laughter bubbled from his mouth. The next thing he knew he was being scooped off John and deposited upon the floor where Mycroft straddled his younger brother's middle, pinning his legs and continued the tickle assault. Sherlock did his best to defend, flailing his arms in an attempt to block his brother's attack, but he was soon trumped as the elder Holmes caught and pinned both arms above the head of curls with one of his own, leaving the other appendage to continue his siege.

"Mycoff! Myc! Stop!" The child gasped between fits of giggles, tears beginning to form in the corners of his eyes from the sheer amount of laughter.

Mycroft paused his strike, allowing his brother to catch his breath, "I will let you go," he raised an eyebrow to punctuate his sentence, "if you concede defeat and agree to behave yourself."

The room stilled, save for Sherlock's continued heavy breathing as the Holmes siblings stared one another down. "Well?" Mycroft prodded after a moment, "shall I take your silence as surrender?"

John sat on the sofa, unable to move because of the utter oddness of the situation, and weight the conversation seemed to carry. Bloody hell, had they always taken this power struggle so seriously?

Finally, Sherlock sucked in a breath, "NEVER!" He crowed before dissolving back into giggles as Mycroft began a second bout of his convulsive crusade. Sherlock writhed back and forth, but with little effect. "Fine Mycoff! I'll be good!"

"Are you sure?" Mycroft inquired, without letting up on the barrage.

"YES! YES! I Promise!" Sherlock guffawed, "Myc stop I'm gonna peeeeee!"

"Well then William Sherlock Scott Holmes, I accept your surrender and release you" the ginger stated as he stood, "I believe the washroom is down the hall and on the right."

Freed, Sherlock scampered from the room in search of the pre-mentioned toilet as Mycroft took back his position in an arm chair, propping his ankle across his knee only to hear John Watson burst into laughter.

"What?" The British government asked, having the nerve to seem surprised by the outburst.

"What the hell was that?!" The doctor roared.

"Oh yes, well it seemed the easiest course of action given the circumstances," the elder Holmes shrugged.

"Easiest course of… Mycroft you just tickled your brother until he nearly wet himself!"

"And gained his cooperation in the process."

"I see, and this is how you got him to behave when you were kids?"

"Indeed. Although I have to admit the extra mass seems to have helped; he has always been rather squirmy."

The solider chuckled as he shook his head, "you Holmeses," he muttered with a tone of both fondness and exasperation.

"They do seem to be quite the handful," agreed a voice from across the room. Two adult heads snapped up to find doctor Stapleton standing in the doorway leading to the kitchen from the living room, a large red box held in hand and a grin on her face. "I see Sherlock had to take a… reprieve. As soon as he's back we can begin."

XXX

Sherlock sat squished as close to John as Mycroft would allow as he took in the room about him. The walls were an egg shell white, and the floor was covered with a beige carpet. There were pictures sitting on an end table, but none on the walls. It was the space of someone who was ready to move at a moment's notice. Initially he had been excited to not have to visit a hospital for this examination, but the sheer lack of anything personal in this "home," left him feeling more ill at ease than any space smelling of antiseptic could.

"Sherlock?"

The young boy jumped at the sound of his name, bringing his eyes up to rest upon the source of the inquiry. It was a woman with brown hair and matching eyes. She smiled when she noticed Sherlock's attention had been placed on her and he tried to ignore the fact that her eyes did not match the grin on her face.

"I asked if you know who I am," she supplied.

Sherlock nodded his head slowly; if Myc trusted this woman he supposed he could too, "you're Dr. Stapleton," he tilted his head to the side slightly, "but your hands aren't like John's so you're not the same kind as he is."

The woman smiled again, but this time lines formed around her eyes, a real one then. "How do you mean our hands are different?"

The brunet reached for his friend's hand breathing a sigh of relief when his hand wrapped around John's thumb. He took only a moment to enjoy the connection before he began, "John's hands are call-… call…," he huffed in frustration.

"Callused?" John supplied.

"Yeah, that," Sherlock agreed before continuing, "an' he keeps his nails really short 'cause he doesn't want to get dirt and stuff under them, right?" The question was directed at John, gray eyes lighted upon the worn face to team with the sheepish inquiry.

A whispered "brilliant," was the doctor's only response.

The boy ducked his head, still not used to someone using that word in relation to himself. "But you," he looked up through his fringe at the doctor-who-was-not, "your nails are long and painted so you can't do what John does."

"That was very good Sherlock," Stapleton intoned as she scribbled something down on a pad of paper.

"Wha then?"

"Pardon?"

"Wha are you? If you're not a doctor?" The child sounded slightly annoyed at having to explain himself.

"Do you like science Sherlock?"

"I…" the boy froze confused to have his question met by another, "yes." He finally answered.

"Well Sherlock I am a doctor of science. My job is to run experiments and learn new things."

"What kinds a'things?" The brunet leaned forward, interest drawing him in where fear kept him at bay.

"Anything I can think of," she looked up from the pad with a smirk, "and I can think of quite a lot."

The hand still wrapped around John's finger constricted, "like wha happened to me?" Innocent eyes narrowed upon the scientist, "Did you come up with that?"

The air in the room thickened with the accusation and the silence which followed.

"I was part of the development team for the treatment you were given," Stapleton explained leveling her gaze to the one trained on her, "but let me assure you I had nothing to do with its administration. I understand why you may be wary, but my goal is to reverse the effects. Is that understood?"

It took a moment, but Sherlock nodded his agreement.

"Good," Stapleton smirked, "let's get started."

XXX

Sherlock had come to a conclusion: 'Doctor Stapleton,' was definitely not like John. Not like John at all.

Her first test had been a physical examination, which based on prior experiences Sherlock conceded was a normal thing for doctors to do. The woman had made him strip down to his pants and then proceeded to examine his arms and legs, making him bend each, and wiggle his fingers and toes. She then took out a stethoscope and placed it onto his back, without warming it the metal stung his skin and he tried to repress a shiver.

This was stupid.

The whole thing was stupid. If she was just going to examine him he was sure John could have done that, and he probably would have held the stethoscope head for a minute so it was not freezing. Then Dr. Stapleton touched his arm, and he just barely held back his gasp. Her hands were as cold if not colder than the listening device. His teeth were chattering, but Sherlock had to wait until the brunette had snapped a few photographs before he was allowed to dress once more.

Next Stapleton told Sherlock to sit across from her at a low coffee table as she reached into a red box and pulled out a set of blocks.

Blocks? Really?

"Blocks are for babies," the boy sneered crossing his arms, "'m four."

"Sherlock," John warned from where he still sat on the couch.

"Its fine Doctor Watson," the scientist spoke to the doctor, but her eyes did not leave Sherlock. "I'm going to show you some images and I want you to replicate them with these blocks. Do you think you can do that?"

"A'course."

And on and on it went. Stapleton continued to ask Sherlock to do odd, mundane tasks and the boy begrudgingly did them as the doctor continued to scribble on her paper.

"'m bored," Sherlock whined after the umpteenth request. "I don' wanna do anymore," these words were accompanied by the thump of the small head landing on the wooden table.

"I just have one more game and a few questions to ask you, and then we're done alright?"

"These aren't games, they're tests, and I've done enough," came the muffled reply.

"Sherlock really," Mycroft sighed, "you've gone this far, you may as well finish."

A moan rose from the child, "noooooooooooo."

"Okay Lock how about this," Sherlock could hear John leave the couch and with a groan settle next to him, "you finish these tests…"

A grunt lifted from under the mop of dark curls.

"Now let me finish," John chuckled, ruffling the chocolate locks. The boy turned his head to look at his friend, the doctor took this as his sign to continue, "You finish this and later we'll do…ah…something."

"Like wha?"

"Well, I don't know yet, but it will be fun. What do you say?" He offered his best smile, hoping to sell the flimsy deal.

Sherlock picked his head off the table, scrunching his mouth as he considered the offer before changing it to a lopsided grin, "Okay," and with that his head landed on John's arm.

"You have a good friend there," Stapleton interjected, pulling a nod from Sherlock.

"Do you remember how you met?"

Sherlock huffed. What a ridiculous question. John just was. He had always been there. Except, no that wasn't right was it? He had not had friends until John, and he hadn't met John until…

_Bit different from my day._

_Can I borrow your phone?_

_The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street. Afternoon._

"Sherlock?"

A castle, he was in a castle in his head. John had mentioned this before. John had said… had said….

_Oh God, yes._

"Sherlock, can you hear me?"

_That ... was amazing._

_Do you think so?_

Pain. An acidic fire spidered across his synapses, working its way through him, chasing and searing all in its path… until… Had to get out. He had to get out. It was going to consume him, devour everything in him until there was nothing left.

Leave it behind, all of it. It was the only way, the only way he could get out…

"Sherlock... Lock please."

The first thing Sherlock became aware of was a smell. A scent of recently washed linin mixed with wool, tea, and sandalwood washing over the infernal, quelling the intense sting and leaving only a throbbing pain in its place. He breathed in through his nose greedily, hoping its magic would work on the rest of the pain in kind. Slowly his body began to relax. His muscles, he had not realized they had been so tense, but they must have for now they unwound and he felt himself sink into something warm and familiar.

Through all the pain he had not noticed, but now that it was ebbing Sherlock became aware of the shivers which were racking his body. Sweat. A cold sweat had broken out at some point and covered every inch of his body, slinking between his shoulder blades and slicking his hair down to his forehead and scalp uncomfortably. It was okay though, because the warmth was there to burrow into and mercifully it wrapped itself about him, enveloping him in calm heat and the balm of the aroma.

"Sherlock?"

Oh… that voice sounding both calm and worried at the same time. How could a voice do that? Be both brave and frightened, and concerned about…. Him? The only people he had ever heard say his name anywhere like that was Mummy and Myc, but this person did not sound or smell like either of them. Who would…oh.

"John?"

"Oh, thank God," John breathed. Sherlock could feel him move about until something was pressed into his hair. John had been doing this more and more, setting his lips into the boy's hair whenever he sounded worried. Mummy did that. When he was sick, or going to sleep she would kiss him and the warmth of his lips seemed to travel deep inside him to settle and spread.

Mycroft had never done it, and father… well, Sherlock had assumed that kisses were something only mummies did, but when John's mouth touched his hair he felt the same warmth. So maybe it was the same. Sherlock was not sure, but it was… nice. He only wished he could enjoy it more, instead his body trembled and his insides suddenly twisted and felt much too warm. The knowledge of what was about to happen came abruptly, but much too late for Sherlock to act before the first heave wracked his being.

But he was being held by John. Doctor John, who had seen this movement, heard the sound as it vibrated against the small throat, and knew what one of his professors had affectionately called 'puke face' as it swept over the boy's façade. The soldier's body had reacted instantaneously, and by the time he mentally understood what was happening he had the small body before the white porcelain of the hall toilet.

Sherlock lurched as his stomach brought up everything it possessed until it was empty and then continued to constrict and strain itself and the muscles around it. Unable to help in any other way John busied himself with rubbing circles onto the child's quivering back until the heaves shaking the body were replaced by sobs.

"Shhh… there you go, it's alright now," John grabbed a tissue from a nearby box and used it to wipe away the bit of sick still clinging to the paler than usual face. The only reaction he received was more shivering as the child refused to release his death grip on the bowl. The doctor carefully removed the fingers from the cold ceramic, and feeling the tremors still running through them removed his jumper and wrapped it around the child and pulled him close.

"Sorry," the boy's voice was meek and hoarse.

"When you were older I thought you didn't know that word," John chuckled to himself. He was met with only silence the blonde cleared his throat and tried again, "What are you apologizing for?"

"I didn't finish."

"Is your stomach still bothering you?" The doctor began to move them closer to the toilet in preparation, but was stopped by the voice again.

"No, the tests. I didn't finish the tests."

"Don't worry about that, its fine."

"So… you're not mad?"

John huffed good naturally, "Why would I be mad? I just… I just want you to be alright. Are you? Alright I mean?"

John felt the dome of damp curls shake to the negative, "my head hurts," he admitted. "I wanna go home John."

"Okay," the doctor nodded his agreement and stood with the still quivering mass in his arms.

Back in the main room Mycroft sat in the arm chair glaring at his phone, but his gaze shot away from it upon hearing John enter the room. His business like face slipped as he took in the sight of his little brother, pale, stricken, and eyes beginning to glaze over.

"Myc…" a small arm stretched out towards the other Holmes and his voice sounded even feebler than it did a moment ago John thought with a grimace.

Crossing to the other man John carefully placed the jumper clad bundle into the dazed ginger's awaiting arms.

"I think we should be heading out," John explained, as he looked around the room, "where is Stapleton?"

"She's in the kitchen," the British government murmured, brushing a damp lock out of his brother's face and letting his hand linger on the child's cheek.

"Right. I'm going to let her know we're heading out then," John explained and then quickly left.

"Oh Sherlock," Mycroft whispered as he pulled his brother closer.

"I don' feel good," the child moaned.

"I know Lockie, but John will take care of you. He's an exceptional doctor."

"I know." For a moment the younger brother was quiet, "Myc? Where's Mummy?"

"She's away," although his skin did not radiate heat Mycroft could not be sure if Sherlock was still perceptually with him or if he had slipped into an older memory due to the sudden sickness. He categorized the worry which accompanied the latter for when he had more information. It would do no good to become sentimental now. The politician began to pull his hand away, but stopped when the small face followed it.

"I miss her," Sherlock sighed.

Mycroft hummed, hearing, but thinking of other matters.

"Miss you too," This statement, so unwary and honest took the elder Holmes by surprise. It had been so long since they had been like this; since Sherlock had wanted him around that he was thrown off guard by the strong stirring in his chest. A just barely remembered tug which made his throat tighten for some inexplicable reason.

"And I you, brother mine," he choked to the now sleeping child, "and I you."

XXX

The black car pulled away from the curb of Baker Street, carrying only a government official and his driver. Sherlock had slept the entire ride back, filling the air with his soft breathing and occasional snuffles while John attempted small talk. Now that the doctor and child were gone Mycroft noticed how quiet the car had become and how empty his arms felt without the weight of his slumbering sibling nestled within them.

The chime of his phone pulled the ginger away from his musings and back down to the glowing rectangle in his hand. A text had come in, from Dr. Stapleton no less.

_Mr. Holmes, we need to meet immediately. It's urgent._

_On my way. –MH_

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As someone who was an older sibling I can attest to tickling as a viable negotiation tactic. 
> 
> A huge thank you for my amazing beta.  
> Is angsty fluff a thing? 'Cause I think that's what I just wrote.  
> Did this hurt to read? It hurt to write, but in a good way.  
> Please let me know what you think, and thank you for reading. My life is better with all of you in it.
> 
> -Nikola


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! I bring you tidings of fluff (and maybe just a bit of angst).
> 
> So bad news. I have constant migraines (at least three a month) and am attempting to find a way to decrease their frequency. As of right now I am getting great results from only using screened technology (cell phones, computers, etc) for a maximum of thirty minutes a day. The main problems I am having with this are:
> 
> a) as a teacher I have to be on the computer on and off throughout the day
> 
> b) It cuts into my writing time for all of you lovelies.
> 
> I plan to continue writing and to test a hypothesis about red tinted glasses as a way to filter out blue light (which many believe can cause migraines), but my updating may be slower than usual. Please understand I am not abandoning this work, only trying to improve upon my human condition to make myself better for all of you and those around me in the long run.
> 
> Trigger warning for talk of war and death
> 
> Explanation Over. Here is chapter thirteen.

John pulled the bundle close as he ascended the seventeen steps from the ground floor to apartment B of 221 Baker Street. Sherlock had slept relatively peacefully during the ride from Dartmoor back to London, but it had not eased the doctor's worries about what had occurred. Sherlock had blacked out twice, TWICE in one day, and despite all of his training John was at a loss as to what was happening to his friend.

Unlocking the door and placing Sherlock on the couch the doctor studied his patient. The cool sweat seemed to have dissipated and the boy's breath had evened out. John pushed some matted fringe off of the pale forehead, and was relieved to find that its temperature was still normal.

"Myc?" It was more a groggy slur than a word.

"No, Lock it's just me," John whispered.

Pale eyes appeared as lids parted and the boy took in him surroundings. "We're home," he stated only slightly surprised.

"Yeah," John smiled, "Mycroft dropped us off. How's your stomach?"

"Not gonna be sick again," the child supplied with a disgusted scrunch of his nose.

The familiar indignation of the look caused John to chuckle. "Good, I'm glad to hear that, and how about that head of yours?"

The brow under John's hand crinkled in concentration, "still hurts," Sherlock admitted, turning his head until John's hand slipped over his eyes.

"Sorry about that mate."

"Why?" Confusion was evident in the quiet voice, "you didn' do it."

"No, but I don't like that you feel like rubbish," John explained beginning to pull his hand away.

A fist wrap around the doctor's middle finger, "don' go," the plea was weak, and perhaps for that reason broke the soldier's heart all the more.

"I'm just going to the kitchen," he explained pressing a kiss to the child's temple, "I'll be back in a moment."

Sherlock did not respond, save to reach above his head for the afghan draped over the back of the sofa. John helped bring it down and cover the small body noticing how Sherlock pulled it over his eyes. With that John headed for the kitchen hoping to find something gentle for his flat mate's stomach.

XXX

The kiss had surprised Sherlock. It should not have, John had been doing it quite often, but through the dull haze of his head and uncomfortable buzzing sensation that there was something important in his mind just out of his reach the connection was…startling. He had not wanted John to go, had felt him pulling away and done what he could do hold him there, to plead that he not leave. The best he could muster was a feeble request, and that had been the catalyst for John's actions.

_Every action has an equal and opposite reaction._

Yes, he knew that. That was how the world…or things in the world…worked. Where had that come from? Not important now. Think about it later.

"Sherlock?"

John. John was back, just like he said he would be. The boy pulled the blanket off of his head and cracked his eyes open to find his friend standing before him with a mug in one hand and a plate in the other. "Do you think you can sit up for me?"

Sherlock shifted until he was sitting upright, slightly leaning against the arm rest until John sat down next to him and the brunet cuddled into his side. He would have happily stayed where he was but, a thought gave him pause.

This was something friends did… wasn't it? He remembered back to when father's friends would come over to the house. There had been handshakes, a foul smelling brown liquid poured into slight crystal glasses, and being told that he must be quiet and not bothersome. There had not been any kisses and the men often sat apart from one another. No contact, no cuddles. This thought in mind, Sherlock reluctantly inched away from John's warmth despite the desire to bury himself in its comfort once more.

John looked down at the child pondering his curious behavior, but shrugged it off. "Here," the doctor smiled, placing the warm mug into the child's hands whilst balancing the plate on his knee, "chicken broth and crackers. Should do quite nicely for your tum I think."

Sherlock reached over the distance and reluctantly took one of the saltines without looking up. He nibbled on the edge while contemplating his connection to the man next to him. John had said they were friends, and Mycroft had confirmed this, but then he and Myc had never had much experience with friendship, and John was just so…different.

He wore jumpers and jeans while father, his friends, and now even Mycroft wore suits. All the other men he had ever met were always busy, but John made time for him, acted like he was important, took care of him. Then there was how he called him 'Lock,' the hugs, the cuddles… and the…

"John?" He hesitated, the cracker making glue out of his saliva.

"Hmm?" John had heard him; there was no going back now.

Sherlock swallowed against the dryness in his mouth, "why do you kiss me?"

"Oh," John intoned surprised by the question. "Sorry do you want me to stop?"

NO. "I don't know," he hesitated, "why do ya do it?"

"Well, I suppose because I love you."

The answer caught the boy so unaware he inhaled the crumbs in his mouth causing him to cough wildly.

"Easy," a calm voice said while Sherlock felt hands guiding his own, which still held the mug to his mouth.

Warm chicken broth poured in and quenched the itch in the boy's throat allowing him to draw breath. "YOU LOVE ME?!" Sherlock squeaked as soon as the words would come.

"Well, yes. Of course I love you." John sounded calm. How could he sound so calm? Sherlock had thought that John was his friend, but now he noticed the ring on John's left hand. There had not been anyone else in the flat. It was just him and John, always the two of them together.

_A sunny day at a church. John standing next to him, wearing a tuxedo; he was in one as well. There had been seating charts to make, cakes to taste, napkins to fold, and a feeling of nervousness and dread. Everything was going to change, their friendship would be over no matter what John insisted, but he could do this, go along with anything if it would make John happy._

"Sherlock? Sherlock are you alright?"

The brunet drew a breath, John was before him, the mug had disappeared from his small hands and as he unclenched them he noticed the crescent imprints of his nails into pale palm skin.

His face was wet, Sherlock realized, and his insides suddenly felt empty. He felt… betrayed. Why would he feel like that? Like John had hurt him. And what did it have to do with a wedding? Had they… was he…?

There had been a movie that John had showed him the other night. It was about a princess who fell into a deep sleep and could only be awoken by a kiss: true love's kiss. That was what love, wasn't?

Kisses, marriages, rings, and sleeping in the same room with the door locked? That was what he read about in those dusty books of Mummy's that Myc had said he was too young to understand, and heard in songs as he and John rode in cabs.

But he did not want that. He thought he and John were friends, not … not…

A shuttering breath gusted past the now pale lips, "John, are we married?"

"What?" Sherlock looked up at the man's face, seeing confusion which only fed his indignation. How could John not understand?

"ARE WE?!" Sherlock bellowed suddenly angry, "You hug me, kiss me, an' you're wearing a ring. You say you love me, and tha's wha people do when they love someone, they marry 'em. It's only log'cal."

"Lock what are you—?"

"I 'member the wedding John," hot tears welled up in the boy's eyes and he felt as though his stomach would empty itself once more, "I didn't wan' it to happen, but I didn' tell you 'cause I wanted you to be happy. I wasn' happy though John! I though… I though you were my friend!" Rivers of hot water raged down Sherlock's cheeks as he burrowed into the afghan wishing he could disappear.

John sat dumbfounded as he stared at the wailing blanket before him. Sherlock thought that they were… married? Wanting to comfort, but unsure how to precede the doctor sat back and let his friend's words sink in.

"Oh," suddenly John understood. Understood that Sherlock had remembered something, something important, and while that was incredibly significant it was also confusing. "Oh Sherlock listen to me. There was a wedding but it wasn't for us."

"But," came a snuffle, "but I saw it. We were standing together and—"

"And I was marrying Mary."

The shuddering lump of fabric paused, "what?"

"Mary, she was my wife, and that was our wedding day."

"Then," Sherlock poked his head out of protective mass, "why was I there?"

Now the doctor smiled, "because I wanted the two people I loved most, Mary as my wife and you as my best man to stand up with me."

The small brow furrowed, "I don't understand. You love me, but didn' marry me?"

John, who had taken a perch on the coffee table in front of his friend, found his head buried in his hands as a giggle slipped out of his mouth.

'"S not funny!" John looked up to find Sherlock sitting with his arms crossed and an quivering bottom lip protruding from his face.

"No Sherlock," the solider giggled, "I'm not laughing at you, just this… this situation." He cleared his throat, taking on the seriousness the conversation called for. "You can feel love for all kinds of people Sherlock."

The child cocked his head to the side, and narrowed his eyes, "Really?" He was prepared to hear his friend out, but was going to analyze the information given for himself.

"Of course," John grinned as he saw a hand snake out and nab another saltine. "Love is when you like to be around someone, you feel happy when they are happy or sad when they're sad. It's when you want to take care of someone else because you worry about them. There is love for your family, love for your friends, the kind of love that leads some people to get married, and I'm sure all different types. So you see I can love you without wanting to marry you." The doctor paused, going over what he said and hoping it was logical enough for his friend," Does that make sense?"

The dark mop of curls sat atop a serious face across from John, a half-finished cracker sat in his hand as his tongue worked a piece of salt against the roof of his mouth until it dissolved. Finally the child nodded, "you love me 'cause I'm your friend. You care about me."

"That's right."

And that's why you kiss me?"

"Well that and the fact that they help pain go away."

"That's why you kiss my head," a smirk spread across the small face, "to make it feel better?"

"Yep."

"John tha's stupid."

"Oh is it? Then I guess you want me to stop?"

"No," Sherlock quickly clarified, "I mean it makes you feel better, so you shouldn' stop."

"Okay well," John chuckled "I've got to go to the loo and when I come back I expect you to have that broth finished, understand?"

Sherlock nodded as he picked up the mug and John left the room.

"John?"

"Yes Sherlock?"

"I… I love you to."

XXX

The sand enveloped his boots, making each step feel as though it were taken in molasses instead of a sweltering desert. The sun beat down upon John's head, causing sweat to pool in the small of his back under his heavy pack. His unit was three clicks out of Zaranj in a small village where fighting had broken out between insurgents and an American troop not an hour before. Their mission was to provide medical aid and supplies to the villagers in the hopes to keep their support and save human lives.

John was traveling from building to building, checking on the injured and searching for those who had been lost in the chaos when he felt a tug on his windproof smock. Turning he found a boy of about ten years of age standing next to a woman in a burka who was speaking frantically in a language the doctor had little knowledge of.

Suddenly the solider found himself taking in the interior of another building, a home he knew instinctually. His eyes roamed about the room, lighting upon the woman from the moment before only now she had collapsed to the floor, the dark material of her body covering pooling around her inconsolable mass. The boy standing next to her attempted to supply comfort, but John could see the tension and unease of the situation in his young eyes. A line of red had soaked into the floor and trailed out of the room. In a daze the doctor followed the path into another chamber, smaller and darker than the one before. There were beds, three of them; the one against the farthest wall was covered by a blanket and the burgundy track stopped before it.

Despite his fear John felt his feet moving forward. He knew what waited for him under that sheet. It was the body of a child, a small boy who had been playing in the street when the gun fire broke out. He would find out later from soldiers who had been there that the mother had rushed out into the street when she noticed her child frozen by the noise and fear, scooping him up and spiriting the boy into the safety of their home only to find her hands stained with his blood, the same blood which blemished the sheet before John now. She had been desperate, unable to leave the home for lack of a male escort but unwilling to let her child slip away without even attempting to safe him, she rushed out, knowingly forfeiting her own life if she was unlucky to run into someone who enforced the law to a severe degree.

Her brother's son saw her once the disarray had quieted and joined in the attempt to save his cousin, but by the time they had retrieved John and brought him back to the child he had lost too much blood. The doctor had been able to ease the pain of the boy's passing, but this was little comfort to the mother. Her wail of anguish rang through the soldier's ears long after he delivered the news.

Now John stood before the blanket, sticky with blood of a life cut too short, blood still staining his hands. Reaching up John pulled down the sheet, revealing a dark tuff of hair which should have been attached to a warm complexion surrounding eyes which the solider imagined once held the spark of a shared joke, but had now been dulled by a bullet meant for someone else. When the fabric fell away however, this was not what he found.

Pale porcelain skin and light blue eyes met the doctor's. Familiar features marred by pain and death.

No.

"Sh…Sher…"

John dropped the covering, but gravity took care of the rest, pulling the heavy material down to the floor to reveal a body not torn by a bullet, but shattered by a fall.

He shouldn't be here. He was not supposed to be here.

"…sherlock…" the soldier's hand flew up to his mouth, a mistake as the copper smell of blood, Sherlock's blood, assaulted his olfactory senses.

"Sherlock?" Blood, more blood seemed to seep out of the body, engulfing it in a puddle of crimson.

No. nonononono. John tried to draw in a breath, but it seemed as though all of the oxygen was being pulled out of the room. John fell to his knees, he wanted so badly to leave, but his body was betraying him, forcing him to stare at the child before him. His friend, his best friend who he was supposed to protect was dead, gone, not coming back, and there was nothing he could do about it.

_"_ _John?"_

Oh God, what was that?

" _John? What's wrong?"_

"Sherlock?" But that was not possible. He was… Sherlock was…

_"_ _John?"_ He, no maybe he could still save him. He had to be alive how else…

"JOHN!"

The doctor's eyes flew open. He was not in the Afghanistan; no he was in London, in his bed at Baker Street. A dream. Just a dream.

"John!" A mass threw itself onto the doctor, and John could suddenly breathe again.

"Sherlock," John gasped holding the child close to him and trying to quell is racing heart. Safe. Sherlock was safe.

"You were cryin' and calling my name," moon light streamed through the window, landing on the child's face before him, eyes large with worry, as the child raked the doctor's face trying to find a reason for what happened, "it was scary."

"I'm sorry Lock," the doctor sighed pulling his friend in close once more to feel the warmth of his body and gust of his breath, signs of life. "It was a dream. A very bad dream."

"Of what?" Sherlock tried to engulf John in his arms, to return the favor of comfort that his friend had so often provided to him, but he could only stretch himself enough to cover the expanse of the man's chest. He turned his head to the side, lighting his eyes on something which caused him to inhale sharply.

"The war," John pressed his face into the dense curls, "you were there, and you shouldn't have been. I…I couldn't save you."

"Does it hurt?" The child felt the odd but slowly becoming familiar sensation of knowing without knowing.

_Afghanistan or Iraq?_

Afghanistan. He knew it was Afghanistan. John had been there, had been fighting. He…

"What?" The blonde knew he had just woken up, but the question still seemed out of place.

Pulling himself from his thoughts Sherlock acted upon impulse.

A soft touch slowly traced the scare on his shoulders, and John suddenly remembered he had gone to bed in only his pants. "This," an index finger traced the geography of the raised tissue. "Does it hurt John?"

"Sometimes," the doctor admitted.

John looked down at the puckered red skin, feeling a tinge of pain brought about by the dream. An ache which was normally ignored brought to the forefront of his mind by the memories of heat and sand.

Sherlock contemplated the scar for a moment more before carefully placing his lips to the raised skin and pulling back. Satisfied with his work the child looked up to his friend, "Did it work?"

"Did what work?" The solider was still shocked by what he had just witnessed Sherlock do. It had been a few days since the peculiar conversation they had had about love and he honestly though the child had pushed it from his mind. This was Sherlock, a man who openly cursed sentiment. John had hoped that their discussion would help Sherlock continue to accept comfort throughout this difficult process… but now he was providing it.

"Did the kiss make it feel better?"

Shaking his head to clear it John felt his heart swelled with affection for the child before him, "Yes, Lock thank you."

"'Welcome," the child exclaimed easily as he wiggled free of John's arms and worked his way under the covers.

"And what do you think you're doing?" John chuckled even as he scooted over the make room in the small bed.

"Boswell and I are gonna stay here tonight," the child explained.

"Is Boswell going to protect us then?" The blonde yawned.

"Don't be silly John." The doctor could swear he could hear the eye roll, "Boswell isn' real, he's filled with stuffing. I'm gonna protect you."

"Oh, and how do you plan to do that?" John stretched out in the bed, enjoying the warmth of Sherlock beside him, a constant reminder of his friend's existence even as he felt the pull of slumber. The doctor waited for a reply, but found the seconds ticking by. Looking down he found his friend had already drifted off to sleep, his head covering the reminder of a war fought far away.

"Good night Sherlock."

XXX

The interrupted night stretched easily into the morning, warm light of day replacing that of the cool moon, sliding over the two bodies lying in her warm embrace. Child and caregiver slept peacefully as John's phone rang to indicate a call, going unnoticed by those in the room. Twice more the device sang its tune, causing only slight stirring from the child, who subconsciously nestled into the scent of his friend. Giving up on their original plan of communication the caller began to text:

_John we've made a terrible mistake. –MH_

_Time is of the essence. Sherlock is in need of immediate intervention –MH_

_I am on route to Baker Street. Be ready post haste –MH_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know what you think if you have the time the story is planned out, but I love to hear from you guys. Also I promise updating will continue to be a priority.
> 
> Thank you for reading, and a special thanks to anyone who comments or has left a kudo. You guys make my day.
> 
> Verb all the nouns,
> 
> Nikola


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am having some difficulty formatting at the moment (HTML my old foe, we meet again), so I will come back later to fix it. Hope you enjoy anyway.

How could he have been so idiotic as to write this event off with such blasé? Mycroft Holmes rubbed at his sleep deprived eyes as his driver continued to careen down the early morning streets of London.

His fault, Mycroft berated himself. Anything that happened to his brother, any ill effect would be on his head and no one else's.

The elder Holmes brought his hands up to knead his temples, though it did little to stop the throb against his skull, the result of lack of sleep, constant worry, and a rather large dose of a stimulant not available to the general public. A fool. He had been a sentimental idiot to think that everything would be fine.

He ran over the information Stapleton had discovered and alerted him to… was it really three days ago? Blast it all! An uncharacteristic growl ripped its way from the man's throat as he stabbed out another message and sent it to Doctor Watson.

No reply. Emotion overwhelmed the normally clinical mind, and Mycroft felt himself jump as a loud bang reverberated throughout the passenger chamber of the car. To his surprise the ginger found his hand was extended and no longer held his mobile. Across from him the device sat shattered, the result of it coming into contact with the bullet proof divider separating the front of the vehicle from the rear.

"Sir?"

Startled, Mycroft turned to find his assistant seated in the opposite corner of the backward facing bench, peering wearily over her smart phone at him.

"Apologies," he breathed letting his head fall back against the plush leather upholstery.

Feelings, they were truly the bane of human existence. Mycroft had always done so well guarding against them, keeping himself distanced from the downfall of the general populace. He had only ever had one weak spot, a soft underbelly he spent years covering with an air of indifference and emotional distance, but it was there nonetheless. Perhaps it was written into genomic code. Some piece of Darwinian evolution which caused siblings to look into each other's wellbeing, a failsafe to ensure the genetic line continued. A more sentimental person may point to something else entirely, some idea of affection driven by familiar relation. Whether caused by primal instinct or something more emotional, Mycroft felt the need to protect throbbing throughout his entire being driving out any semblance of sensible thought. The effect was… distressing. Mycroft was aware that he was reverting back to an earlier way of being, an emotionally driven mindset he believed was left in his youth, but now, now he understood. It had not been left, but merely buried deep beneath logical thought and rule governed conduct. He could feel that all eroding, the years of hard built mask being stripped from him until all that was left was the eleven year old boy whose biggest fear about leaving home was what would happen to his little brother in his absence.

"We're arriving, sir."

Looking out the window Mycroft saw the familiar black door come into view, and pulling on the handle the government official leapt out the door before the car had come to a complete stop.

Vaguely he felt a twinge in his right ankle, a result of his shared forward momentum with the vehicle as his shoes landed on the (in comparison) still ground, causing his appendage to twist rather uncomfortably. A sprain most likely, but even this thought did not stop the man who openly despised leg work. Time was of the essence.

 

XXX

 

When sleep first began to ebb away from his mind John became aware of a small heaviness on his chest. Cracking an eye open the doctor took in the sleep disheveled tussles of his flat mate. Somehow Sherlock had scaled him during the night, and now with cheek above John's heart his lax breath came in puffs, softly displacing blonde chest hair and causing a not unpleasant tickling sensation.

The doctor felt a smile creep onto his lips. Not two weeks ago John would have been flabbergasted to find his best friend sleeping atop of him in such a manner, but now it brought a sense of comfort. Blearily he remembered the night before. The dream had dissipated for the most part, leaving only wisps and a memory of the fear behind, but he would never forget what had happened afterwards, how Sherlock had attempted to provide comfort and protection to his friend.

Despite what most people thought, John was not the oldest in his family. Harriet had been two when John came into the world, and in the early years she had been an excellent big sister. Harry had shared her bed when he had been scared, and played his games in spite of the slight age difference between the two. No, Harry had been a wonderful older sister until John was about twelve, and Harry discovered her fondness of alcohol. Whether it was a natural inclination to the drink brought about by a shared tendency with their father, falling in with 'the wrong crowd' as their mother often toted, Harry's now admitted blooming feelings for her best friend at the time Margret, or a mixture of all of these factors John's older sister began to withdraw from him and climb farther into the bottle. By the time John was sixteen he was receiving calls from the local bars where a sobbing Harry begged him to come get her, promising that she was going to change. Putting the stumbling drunk into a cab John found it difficult to find his once protective older sister in the red faced woman before him. Their relationship suffered to this day.

Still, John had always wished for a younger sibling, he had been good with his cousins, often babysitting during his teenage years and the nurses at the clinic marveled at his ability with children. He had been so excited when Sherlock deduced that Mary was pregnant… but well, no he did not want to think about that, not right now. About Mary, and the baby, about what could have been. Seeming to sense his quiet distress Sherlock, still sleeping nuzzled his face against John's chest causing the older man to wrap his arm around the small body protectively.

When John first met Sherlock all those years ago he had no idea how close they would become. John had had mates, people he grew up with whom he cared about, and later comrades on the field of battle. There had been men and woman he would have given his life to protect and save, but Sherlock, he was so much more than that. Sherlock was brilliant in so many ways, he noticed things most people over looked, but in other areas he could be incredibly dense. This odd dichotomy, a mix of genius and ignorance (and a rather biting wit) had left the detective effectively alone until John limped into his life. Although really, John thought, they had both been alone when they agreed to share the rent at 221. The dejected solider he had been would have never imagined that this simple contract would give him what he had been in need of: family.

It was the closest thing he could come up with to explain their relationship really. The sometimes interwoven feelings of wanting to strangle the brilliant man while having to push down the urge to giggle at his ridiculousness and marvel at his intelligence was a sensation that only family could bring about in him, and somehow Sherlock had managed to do it. John smiled as memories of arguments with the prat shuffled through his mind.

  
_It's not in the rules._

  
_Well then the rules are wrong!_

  
_It's an experiment John!_

  
_There's a human head in the fridge._

  
_Just tea for me, thanks._

  
_Bored._

  
_Well what do you expect me to-_

  
_BORED!_

And despite this horrible, horrible thing which had been done to his friend, John could not help feeling at least a bit grateful for the chance to meet Sherlock at this stage. To be gifted with the chance to interact with, and be a brother to the man he loved as one was a rare gift.

His thoughts may have continued along with path even with the huffs of the elder Sherlock in his mind about the 'sentimental rubbish,' when John became aware of the sound of the front door being swung open (Mrs. Hudson must have left early for the shops for it to be unlocked at this hour) followed by frantic footfalls eating up the distance of the stairs. Entry to the flat seemed to stop the interloper for a moment as it was still locked (John was not going to let another mad man just prance into their home, thank you), but soon that too sent a resounding bang through the sleepy building.

"Dr. Watson! Sherlock!" a harried voice cried out without thought of the neighbors or who else might here. The blonde sat in shock of a moment, he knew that voice, yet had never heard it sound anything but controlled and level so it took a moment for him to answer.

"Mycroft?" He called out in response, wincing when he heard the sound travel back to him after bouncing off the walls. They were going to wake the entire street if they kept this up. Placing his ward on the bed, John stood and retrieved his robe from the back of his door, wrapping it around himself before opening the barrier between his sleeping area and that of the stairs it seemed just in time as the man in question had begun to ascend those too in haste.

"Mycroft, do you have any idea what time it-?"

"Where is he?" The normally cool face looked up at John in worried bewilderment, "he wasn't in his room, nor was he any other portion of this edifice. I've checked—"

"Up here," John stuttered trying to match the man before him to the usually calm government official, "he came into my room last—"

Pushing past the doctor Mycroft forced his way into the room only pausing for a moment to breathe when his eyes fell upon the large poof of dark curls. The respite only lasted for a moment before the red haired man rushed towards the bed, "Sherlock wake up now, come on," even in a hushed tone his voice wavered with urgency, "I need you to come with me."

"Come with you?" The doctor furrowed his brow in an attempt to understand, "Mycroft what is going on?"

"And you!" The elder Holmes turned towards the other adult in the room, his eyes filled with ire, "Why were you not answering your phone?!"

"Maybe because it's five in the bloody morning!" Any drowsiness left in John's mind was burned away by a sudden intense burst of anger, grown from his questions going ignored and the abrupt blames.

"Mycoff?" Both men turned their attention to the boy now sitting up in the bed, using the back of one of his hands to wipe the sleep from one of his gray eyes. "Wha are you doing here?"

The man in question spun back towards the bed, gripping his brother by the shoulders, "Sherlock you need to come with me, we have to go now."

Watching the interaction John noticed how the elder brother's hands shook, taking a closer look it became clear that his normally impeccable suit was rumbled past the point of one day's wear, and his eyes lay above dark shadows.

"Mycroft," John questioned, his anger instantly forgotten, "are you alright?"

"What abou' bre'fast?" Sherlock murmured, "Mrs. Hudson's gonna make pancakes." The child's tired eyes lit up with a thought, "Are you gonna eat with us?" An excited smile pulled at his face causing a dimple to appear on Sherlock's left cheek.

"No Lockie, I'm afraid there is no time."

Sherlock's bottom lip jutted out and began to tremble, "but I wanna have pancakes."

John had seen this before; Sherlock was more inclined to argue in the mornings before he was fully awake and had something in his stomach. Plus he had been begging Mrs. Hudson for pancakes with peanut butter all week, to which the land lady had lovingly patted his head and stated that they were only a Saturday treat. So each morning that week Sherlock had been crossing out the days on the calendar (on Tuesday crossing off two in the hopes of fooling both John and Mrs. Hudson) in anticipation for Saturday morning, and now that it was finally here his brother was attempting to get the boy to leave without the coveted treat. John watched helplessly as Hurricane Sherlock blew into the harbor.

"Sherlock," Mycroft's broken tone attempted to scold although it sounded more fatigued than reproaching.

"Why?" The child demanded his eyes becoming red and watery as his arms crossed his chest tightly.

"Sherlock we don't have time for this."

"I wanna know why!" A challenge had entered the younger brother's voice. A demand of why he had to give up his well waited for treat just because his brother said so. Sherlock knew that pancakes were an only Saturday food, and so too Mycroft had to know. Had to understand what giving up this opportunity would mean.

Any patience left in the elder Holmes dissipated at his brother's petulant demands. He did not have time for this, everything was at stake. SHERLOCK was at stake and he refused to forfeit his brother because of his childish desire for pancakes of all things. "Because I said so, that's why!"

Sherlock's face contorted for a moment. That…that… was not fair. He had been waiting for pancakes all week and his brother was just going to come in here and take them away. Just like that? "Bu' it's Saturday," he whimpered trying to hold it all together like a big kid, attempting to speak reason to his brother. Maybe Mycroft did not know, maybe he had not looked at the calendar this morning, and just did not realize…

"I don't care. You will do as I say."

Betrayal. Utter, devastating betrayal was felt to the very core of Sherlock's being and raged bubbled up to mingle along with it. Involuntarily his chest started to shutter and each breath seemed to get lost in his throat. Hot angry tears leaked down his cheeks and his hands and feet felt too warm, he tried to move, to put them on the cool wooden floor to cool them, but his traitor of a brother grabbed him not even allowing him this small relief. HOW DARE HE! A screech ripped forth from inside the small body. Sherlock writhed under the prison of the hands, swinging his limbs savagely in an attempt to guard his seemingly shrinking piece of personal space. Anger pushed its way out of him once more in the form of another blood curtailing scream. This was not right! It was not fair! Nothing would ever be right again!

"SHERLOCK HOLMES!" When the bellow only drew a louder shriek from the boy kicking and screaming on the mattress John snapped out of the shocked stupor the brother's interaction had put him into.

Placing a hand onto the irate older sibling's shoulder John felt the muscles there already wound tight stiffen to a greater degree. "Mycroft," the name was said calmly, but with a hint of warning. The body underneath the doctor's hand deflated as the man in question turned around to face the other adult in the room.

"John. I need to get him to my team," if the solider did not know the government man as well as he did he would think tears shown in his eyes, "we're wasting time, time we may no longer have."

John had many things he wanted to say, questions he wanted to ask, yet his years in the army had taught him that there were times to ask questions and times for action. This seemed to be the latter. "Okay Mycroft," he sighed bringing a hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose, "I'll get him ready… just make yourself useful and make some toast for him alright. He's always a bit grumpy before he's eaten."

Mycroft nodded, all fight from a moment ago leaving him as he began to stumble to the door. John made a mental note to check on why the normally posh man was limping later. "And Mycroft," he added before the man disappeared down the stairs. "Something for yourself too, yeah? You looked like hell."

Sitting on the bed John waited, watching his friend through a fit. He had often accused the man of throwing temper tantrums as an adult, but they had never gotten anywhere close to this. After another moment Sherlock began to cough, an event probably caused by the mucus working its way down his throat. Picking up the glass of water he kept by his bedside John slid closer to his friend, leaning the body into a sitting position and pulling Sherlock up onto his lap.

"Shhh, now," he hushed rubbing at the still quivering back, "I have water here, would you like some?"

Keeping his head down and still whimpering Sherlock nodded his head, accepting the glass when it was placed into his hands and taking a long pull from it. "S'not fair."

"I know. You've been looking forward to pancakes all week, haven't you bud?"

""S Saturday," Sherlock agreed looking up, relieved to be talking to someone who could see reason.

"It is," John agreed with a serious nod of his head, "but… it's going to be Saturday all day."

"Wha?" the boy scrunched his face, not understanding why that would be pertinent.

"Today is Saturday," John explained, "so it will be Saturday later today, and tonight right?"

Gray irises rose to the ceiling "Tha's how days work John."

"All right," John chuckled, "so we can have pancakes when we get back then right?"

Sherlock froze, looking for some loop hole which would allow the day to pass without him receiving the desired food item, "but John, pancakes are bre'fest food."

"Yes, they are."

"An' it won' be bre'fest time later," he attempted to explain the problem calmly, although he could not understand how his friend could have missed such an obvious fact.

"So we'll have them for lunch, or dinner," John shrugged.

The child sighed, dropping his forehead down against his friend's chest. How could a doctor be so dense?

To his surprise he felt the warm chest rise and fall in a chuckle, "We can have pancakes whenever we want Lock," John explained wrapping his arm around the boy affectionately.

That did not make sense, Sherlock was sure of it. Breakfast foods were eaten at breakfast, not as a snack, or lunch, that was why they were breakfast foods! But this was John. John knew lots of stuff and Sherlock knew he could trust him even if what he was saying sounded impossible. Yet, if something as important as pancakes had flexible rules, then did other things? Sherlock rolled this thought over in his mind, deciding to test this new theory.

Lifting his head Sherlock locked eyes with John and asked with all the seriousness a four year old can muster, "Can I wear my pajamas?"

 

XXX

 

Mycroft drummed his fingers on the counter as he waited, a tower of toast smothered in peanut butter leaning precariously by his side, his attempt at an apology. Sighing, the ginger picked up the top most piece of bread and bit into it, regretting the choice immediately as the aroma made his anxiety ridden stomach roll. Struggling to swallow the sticky substance, Mycroft reached into his pocket to check the time on his phone, only recalling its demise when he found it to be empty.

"Damn," he groaned rubbing his eyes. The throb in his head beat in time with his heart, pushing the blood about at an agitated speed.

Walking back into the sitting room Mycroft peered up the darkened staircase. What could be taking them so long? Unused to the seer amount of nervous energy flowing through him, Mycroft found himself pacing the floor. Give him a civil war, a terrorist attack, a complete government meltdown and Mycroft knew how to deal with it without blinking an eye, but when it came to saving his little brother he was practically useless. Chuckling ruefully, the disheveled man dropped his head down to his hands.

"Peanut butter!" The shout caused Mycroft to jump out of his skin as a gust blew past him, the after effect of Sherlock running towards the smell of the beloved brown substance.

"Good choice that, the peanut butter I mean," Mycroft turned to find John smiling at him, now fully dressed, "It's probably the best way to get back into his good graces."

Turning from John to his brother, Mycroft gaped at the now smiling child who had tugged the serviette upon which the toast tower was resting, causing the leaning mast to fall onto him and the floor.

"Sherlock," John sighed shaking his head even as the child contently picked up a piece of the toast which had landed slathered side up and crunching on it happily.

"He's still in his pajamas," Mycroft winced hearing what had just slipped out of his mouth. How slow was he becoming? Pointing out the obvious in such a way?  
"Yeah, we're working on rule flexibility," this was all John offered as an explanation, and really the older brother did not feel a need to press for more. Scooping up his baby brother (who had managed to get the noxious food stuff in his hair of all places) he made way through the flat door with the doctor close on their heels.

They had wasted enough time, and Mycroft found himself hoping against all logic that they were not too late.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's play "What Ideal of Psychological Development Did Sherlock Display in This Chapter?"
> 
> (The crowd goes wild with cheers and applause)
> 
> What was it? Can you guess? Can ya?
> 
> Thank you for reading and all of the well wishes. They are greatly appreciated. 
> 
> Nikola


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Thank you for being so patient with me. Cutting down my use of the computer has been great for my head, but not for my posting schedule.
> 
> For all of you playing at home, Sherlock displayed egocentrism in the last chapter (as well as all the things you lovely people pointed out as well. Gold stars all around). This is when a child believes that if they know something everyone knows it. It is usually grown out of by the age of six or seven. I am currently working at a day camp (because teacher's gotta eat) and as such am dealing with much younger students than I have recently. The pancake scene from the last chapter was inspired by a confrontation one of our councilors had with a student (I played the role of John).
> 
> My beta is in an area where she cannot get to the internet (she is also a teacher working at a camp to pay for her housing) so all mistakes are mine and will hopefully be fixed when Cassie is available.
> 
> Anyway thank you again, and enjoy.

It was a small room, four walls plus a floor and a ceiling. Six sides.

_Now a cube sweetheart, is a region of space formed by six squares all identical to one another and joined at their edges. Three edges join at each corner to form a vertex._

A cube or regular hexahedron, one of the five platonic solids. Sherlock shook his head, trying to clear away the flow of the familiar female voice floating through his head. It was getting worse, the leaking. That's how he thought of it, the leaking of thoughts which did not feel like his but he somehow knew were true. They came from the building, with its towers and brick façade. The boy worried his bottom lip trying to keep the tears which threatened to flow back. Maybe he should have told John, but John might have been upset, and he did not want to upset John.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock lifted his eyes to the woman who sat across from him at the table. She had been sitting in the room when Sherlock had reluctantly let go of John's and Mycroft's hands. Sherlock had forgiven his brother on the ride to the doctor. Myc had looked so warn down and not at all like himself, even after Sherlock had pardoned him he still seemed nervous and had gripped Sherlock's hand with his clammy one, as though he were worried that Sherlock might disappear.

"Did you hear me?" It was that woman again. Jennifer. She was a doctor, said so herself, but Sherlock knew she was not like John, or Dr. Stapleton. The brunet locked eyes with her in what he hoped was a steely gaze, and did not indicate his discomfort at being left in a white room alone with this stranger.

"No," he mumbled, crossing his arms and looking down at the table. Sherlock had agreed to work with this person, but that did not mean he had to be nice about it.

"Well no worries. I was just saying I thought we could draw some pictures." Jennifer smiled as she reached into a cloth bag situated against the leg of her chair and pulled out a stack of paper and some crayons. Sherlock nodded absently, staring past the dirty blonde to the mirror inset in the wall behind her. His own serious visage reflected back at him from within, showing only himself and the woman in the small stark room.

"Mycroft, explain now." John hissed. He had held his tongue throughout the car ride for Sherlock's sake, but now, watching the boy from the darkened side of a two way mirror he was determined to get answers.

"I miscalculated." The elder Holmes answered the question, not taking his eyes off of the small body in the other room who had grudgingly picked up a red crayon and begun to draw. "I was over confident, and now my error could condemn my little brother." He sighed, "I've betrayed him once more."

The doctor stared at the government man who had grown gaunter then what seemed possible in the four days since John had laid eyes on him. "What the hell are you talking about?" He breathed feeling a coldness settle in his stomach, "Sherlock is fine. Everything was—YOU said everything was fine!" The soldier's fist slammed against the wall causing everyone including the two people in the adjoining room the jump in surprise.

"Wha was tha?" Sherlock said gaping at the source of the crash with puzzlement. What was happening on the other side of the wall?

"I'm sure it was nothing," Jennifer assured him, setting down a green crayon. Sherlock had been halfheartedly working on a drawing of a dragon, but now he studied the other wall with curiosity. Something was definitely happening over there. He fiddled with the last button on his pajama top, spinning it around and around in his fingers, causing the thread to tighten.

"That's a nice looking dragon you've got there," Jennifer insisted drawing his attention back to her. Sherlock shrugged not really caring about what this 'doctor' thought. "Stories about dragons, they usually have castles in them. Do you know anything about castles Sherlock?"

"What changed?" John huffed, "four days ago you were concerned about him, sure, but you left your brother in my care. What's happened?"

"I found something," Doctor Stapleton injected. John startled, forgetting that Stapleton and Mycroft's PA were still in the room with them. "Sherlock wasn't the first."

"What do you mean?" John breathed.

"Phillips had a brother, a few years older than him. He had been in the army, was stationed in Iraq and was discharged after losing his leg to a roadside ambush. With no other living relatives he went to stay with his sibling."

John nodded, unable to speak. He knew what it was like being sent home with limited funds. He had even stayed with Harry for the first month back before he could not take her constant state of drunkenness anymore.

"It seems it started off innocently, if not unethical. Phillips was attempting to alleviate his brother's pain."

"How would?—"

"Antithesis mitosis has had a rather interesting side effect. When tested on animals, more precisely rats with amputated tails, the serum allowed the animals to regain the missing appendages in their infancy and retain them once the process was reversed. As I am sure you will agree Doctor Watson, this could revolutionize the world of medicine as we know it." Stapleton peered at him, "did you notice the absence of track marks on Sherlock's arms?"

John stammered, he had not noticed, but then he had been a little distracted with the other changes which had occurred in his flat mate, mainly his second youth.

The brunette smirked, "I thought not. We theorize the healing properties have to do with the cellular reset. Simply the deoxyribonucleic acid states that the part is to be there, so the cells rebuild it. As it is Martin took the serum, it seems, to heal his brother's wound, but could not handle the psychological ramifications as well as he thought."

"What happened to him?" John breathed.

Mycroft drew a breath to answer, but was interrupted by a shout from the other room.

"Sherlock please," Jennifer spoke with strength, but it was clear she was fighting a losing battle.

"NO!" Sherlock shouted again, pinning his ears to the sides of his head as his hands crushed down upon them. "I can't!" The small body sank beneath the table, "You can't make me!"

With a sudden burst of energy Sherlock flew from under the table and raced to the reflective surface of the adjoining wall. He pounded the Plexiglas with all of his might, but this did not even cause a dent in the flexible material.

"JOHN! MYCOFF!" The cries echoed around the small room, ringing through the speakers allowing the audience to listen to the interactions. His voice was desperate and full of fear causing John's heart to palpitate with worry.

"Mycroft-," John gasped.

"Please," the normally clarion voice was gurgled with the sound of just held back tears. The fists kept up their pounding, but it was weaker now, almost resigned, "please don' leave me."

John had heard enough. Moving out of the room with purpose despite the calls of those in the room he left. The doctor came to the other room's door and tried the handle, finding it locked. "Open the door!" He yelled, "Unlock it or I'll break it down!"

"John?" Sherlock was now on the other side of the door trying the handle, despite Jennifer trying to persuade him against it. "It's locked John," the knob rattled as small hands tried desperately to force it open.

"Stand back Sherlock," John called, "I'm going to force it down." The doctor backed up so he could kick down the egress when a hand grasped his arm.

"That would be inadvisable Doctor Watson," Mycroft rasped from his side, emotion heavy in his voice.

"Mycroft let go of me or I swear—"

"Myc?" The hall fell silent except for the child's voice carrying through the door. "Myc I can't do this….'m scared. Help me. Please."

John felt the hand on his arm quiver and turned to find Mycroft's head ducked in defeat. "Damn." The ginger dropped John's arm and slipped his hand into the inner pocket of his suit coat retrieving a key. He closed the distance to the door and disengaged the lock with a single click. Before he could open the door it was pulled inward and Sherlock ran out quickly attaching himself to his brother's leg and hanging on with all of his might.

Mycroft dropped his hand down into the forest of curls, but his expression held grim. He turned toward John, "There is something you need to see."

XXX

John followed Stapleton down a long corridor, her heels clicking ahead of him. He had been uneasy about leaving Sherlock with Mycroft after what had happened, but he had been assured that Sherlock would be well kept while John was away. This did not dissuade the solider from threatening the other man with bodily harm as he felt him behind. Finally Stapleton turned and opened a door leading to what looked to be an observation room similar to the one he was just in, only larger and lit, causing the two way mirror to be opaque.

"David Phillips," the scientist intoned handing a file to John, "army sergeant. Awarded for valor and bravery, two deployments to Iraq, honorably discharged after losing his leg to an insurgent attack in 2012 and has since been living in the care of his younger brother, Dr. Martin Phillips."

John flipped through the file he had been handed, taking in the standing of the man Stapleton described. It was full of high regards from his commanders and an impressive military history.

"Last year Sargent Phillips was having a large amount of head pain," Stapleton continued, "on request from a neurologist he was given a full work over, which included various brain scans and provided a large amount of imaging."

The woman opened a drawer and pulled out another stack of papers trading them for the file in John's hands. "These images showed that David suffered from severe depression, most likely caused by the loss of his leg and this was, most likely, the reason for his migraines."

"Okay—"

"Two months ago Martin admitted his brother into a psychological hospital on the grounds that he had become suicidal. The hospital kept him for a week, but after that David checked himself out again. We believe this was when Dr. Phillips injected his brother."

"He was trying to save him," John reasoned. "Fix his leg and get rid of the depression." While he still held no good will for the man who had attacked his friend, he had to concede that if Harry ever tried to end her life John would do whatever was in his power to help her.

"Yes, he was." Stapleton's mouth drew into a tight line and John recalled that she had worked with this man every day. She produced another file from the same drawer and stepped over to John. "Martin was a good scientist, but he had a habit of biting off more than he could chew. Even though we had not reached the point of human studies he thought he could handle the conversion, both portions on his own, and well—these are brain scans taken after Rewrite was given to David."

John studied the images; comparing them to the others he had previously been given. It was obvious that the splotches in color were different in hue and shape, but as John's specialty did not fall into neurology he was unsure what he was seeing.

"It's a bit like a Rorschach isn't it?" John nodded and huffed his agreement. He understood that the scans showed significant differences, but what exactly that meant he was unsure.

"See the differences here? In the amygdala and temporal lobe? These regulate emotion, memory and response.

"What about here? The frontal lobe right? It's completely-," John waved his hand in an attempt to explain.

"Yes its completely different isn't it? It's the last thing to develop so I suppose it makes sense that it would be the most affected area."

"That controls a person's personality doesn't it?" John furrowed his brow, Phillips was adept in the workings of the brain, and he had caused this much change without meaning to? "Sorry, you said these were taken after?"

"We found David last week, a few hours after you left my home. Martin had been keeping him in a little cottage in the wood behind his house. After three days of his brother not showing up David wandered out in search for him," Stapleton walked over to flip off the lights causing the mirror to become transparent and light to flood through it.

The connected room was very unlike the one Sherlock had been in. Where it had been stark and white this one was painted a dark blue and contained various toys and a bed. In the center sat a man playing with plastic soldiers on the floor. John gasped. He was looking at David Phillips, but this man was not the Sargent described in the manila folder. The room door opened and a woman dressed in nurse scrubs stepped into the room carrying a tray.

"Perfect timing as always," Stapleton sighed turning on the speaker so they could hear the interaction.

"Hello David! Are you ready for lunch?"

The man looked up from his battle field with a frown, "Is Marty coming today?" He blinked at her, hope visible in his brown eyes. "He said he'd be right back. When is he coming?"

"Turn it off," John gulped unable to remove his eyes from the scene before him. "Please."

"He keeps asking for him, every time someone comes into the room. He seems to have imprinted on Martin. The longer he goes without seeing him the more he rejects his food and drink."

"Enough," John gasped. The brunette clicked the speaker off and turned back on the lights while the solider set his jaw. "Why show me this?"

"If I would have known this was why Martin was pushing so hard I never would have—When Mr. Holmes told him it was never to be tested on humans—"

"Why!" John snapped.

Stapleton startled, but then turned to John, "So you understand Doctor Watson. This is Sherlock's fate if we cannot reawaken his memories," she sighed, bringing her hands to her head, "if there is anything left there by now."

"He does remember things," John let a bit of hope slip back into his voice. "He remembers things all the time."

"Because of that mind palace of his," she nodded. "The way he stores his memories may have caused Sherlock's brain to form differently and be more resilient against the reshaping, but mind palaces are tricky. They need to be traversed on a regular basis to stay functional, or memories begin to bleed and disappear. If we don't act soon," her eyes drifted back to the mirror, "then that is the fate which awaits him."

John closed his eyes tight, causing his forehead to crinkle under the stress and then sighed, "What do you need me to do?"

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry, so so sorry.
> 
> What do you think? Please leave a review if you feel inclined and thank you again for your patience and continued readership.
> 
> I am so grateful for you all.
> 
> -Nikola


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys. So this is a really short chapter, and normally I would not post it yet but I've had a migraine for the last few days and probably will not be able to write for a while because of it. This has not been sent to my beta so all mistakes are mine. Thank you to everyone who has stuck with this story despite my odd posting schedule. We are getting close to the turning point.

"I wanna go home."

The brothers had been shown to a waiting room, still as stark as the rest of the facility but lined with upholstered benches on three of its walls. On one of these the pair sat.

Mycroft, worn by stress and lack of sleep had chosen to sit where two of the walls met. He rested his pounding head on the adjacent section of the corner while he closed his eyes. It was not rest, not really, but it was the closest he had managed since learning about Phillip's sibling. The elder Holmes had just picked up his internal self-berate when the thunk of a weight fell across his lap. Startled, his eyes flew open to find his pajama clad brother curled up atop of him. "Sherlock…" Mycroft's hand hovered above the dark forest of curls, wanting to comfort but fearful of adding to the damage already done.

Taking the choice from him the four year old wrapped his arms around as much of his brother's torso as he could and squeezed. After a moment the appendages loosened but stayed in place as an irritated huff left Sherlock's mouth. "You're too thin," he mumbled rubbing his face against his brother's suit, "don't like it, I miss your extra padding."

A staggered exhale escaped from Mycroft's mouth as a burning sensation pushed behind his eyes. What was he supposed to do with this… this outflow of sentiment that the situation was pulling from him?

"Lockie,"shaking his head he pulled his brother away by the shoulders, trying to ignore how small they were under his hands and the whimper which escaped the young throat, "Sherlock listen to me please." He sighed, strengthening himself. "We are not like this, we have not been this way for a very long time."

A puzzled look crossed the gray blue eyes before they came back to his brother's face, "Yes we are." Milk teeth worried Sherlock's bottom lip, his eyes roaming over Mycroft's body no doubt taking in his posture and tone of voice, finding only truth there. "Stop it Mycoff. Stop it now. I don' wanna talk about this."

"No Sherlock, even though it pains me I fear we need to talk about this. I will not fail you again." Despite his worry Mycroft pulled his brother close and buried his nose in the thick curls. Doctor Watson bought different soap and shampoo than the Holmes had. Something more generic and inexpensive, but underneath was still the smell of Sherlock, an odd mix of that sweet sweat that children seem to have before reaching the age of puberty and something else he could only recognize as being his brother.

"You've ne'er failed me Myc." The words were muffled by the fabric of the expensive but days worn clothing.

"Oh, but I have brother mine," he pulled his precious bundle closer, relishing in the comfort before it was potentially pulled away forever, "and it is unfair for me to take advantage of this current situation by pretending everything still is as it was."

"You're not taken' advant'ge," Mycroft could hear the slight sniffle in the statement. The last thing he wanted to do was cause his brother more pain, but he needed to do this. To set Sherlock straight about them, because while he did not want to consider what would happen if they could not reverse this…situation, he knew he could not bear to have his brother's adoration without giving him all the facts. Moriarty had referred to the eldest Holmes as 'The Ice Man,' but when it came to his brother, when Sherlock was being himself and not hiding behind a mask of snide comments and aloofness he found his own walls crumbling down around him. Right now they were not the high powered government official and famous consulting detective, but Myc and Lockie, just two brothers clinging to one another.

"But I am, Sherlock. I am. You do not remember, I suppose for you it is like it has not happened yet, but that does not change the fact that it did." Mycroft cleared his throat. "When I was first made to leave I did everything I could to stay near to you. I sent letters and called constantly, but a majority of my phone inquiries were met with insurances that you were out with acquaintances, and my letters went unanswered. I assumed you were moving on nay, thriving in my absence. Father had always insisted that I coddled you, and the evidence I was given supported the fact that without my influence you were coming into your own." The ginger smiled bitterly. "I underestimated Father's tenacity. The strength of his philosophies about the errors of caring."

Mycroft continued. "When I came home to visit Mummy was off on a conference tour in America and you were standoffish. You stayed in your room or were off with the nanny when I awoke in the morning. I thought you were asserting your independence, that you had no need for me anymore. Believing this, I did not push and when I returned to school I buried myself in my studies thinking you to be fine."

"Tha's…" Sherlock looked up at his brother, confusion creasing his face, "No tha's not right." The boy's eyes pinched closed as a ripple of pain crossed his face.

"Sherlock?" Mycroft adjusted his brother so he could see his face, pushing the dark fringe from a pale forehead.

"Not your fault." Sherlock moaned, eyes still clenched shut even while his hands fisted into Mycroft's suit coat. "'S'okay Myc… 's'okay."

"Sherlock?" The government official could not keep the worry about of his voice; vaguely he was aware of a substance running down his face. A jump in logic lead to the unconscious conclusion of tears. Fear, he realized. He was experiencing unadulterated fear about the state of his brother and his inability to help.

"Wrote you…too…" Sherlock grimaced. "Thought you didn' wanna talk to me. Father said you were 'appier without me."

Mycroft pulled his little brother tight against his chest beginning to rock him back and forth. "Father was a power hungry fool, inept at keeping even the most fundamental human relationships without the benefit of money and control." The government official buried his face into the child's hair. He was shaking, sobbing most likely and Sherlock seemed to be as well.

"Ob'iously." Sherlock murmured before going lax in his brother's arms, quiet and limp as a ragdoll.

The elder brother noticed the dead weight immediately. "Sherlock?" Mycroft's voice was rough with tears which made the chocolate curls cling to his face. "Sherlock?!" He lightly shook the small body but received no response. "HELP!" Mycroft stood, his little brother bundled in his arms unsure of where to go, only knowing that his brother needed assistance. "SOMEBODY HELP PLEASE!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. Please leave a comment or kudo if you feel the urge. I have the story planned out, but I would love to hear what you think. Your comments make my day. 
> 
> Thanks again,
> 
> Nikola


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! So good news on the migraine front, I am having an MRI tomorrow so hopefully I'll have some answers and be able to pick up my life again soon. As for this story I do not foresee it lasting more than thirty chapters so we are more than half way there!
> 
> My beta is deep in the woods and without Internet so all mistakes are mine, hope you enjoy anyway. Here is chapter 17.

John slowly walked towards the room Stapleton had directed him to, the scientist's words still swimming in his head. They twisted and turned, pulling at his heart and causing a hole to drop out of his stomach. He knew what had to be done, knew the dire consequences for his best friend if he were to fail, if only he knew how…

"One side! Get to one side! Emergency." John was pressed to the wall as three medical professionals surged passed with a gurney. John watched in a daze as the white coats disappeared around the corner, going the same direction he had been. Then he understood.

It was a feeling. The one he would get while on patrol with his unit when the air suddenly became too still, or passing a dimly lit ally in London which seemed to rustle in just the wrong way. Sherlock had sneered at him when he first mentioned it, calling into account the works of charlatans and mad men who claimed to have the ability to predict the future and were thoroughly debunked. John in turn had explained that he was not claiming to be able to read minds or see the imminent just that sometimes he had a gut feeling which he would rather not ignore. Eventually (after the doctor had saved him multiple times) Sherlock decided to take them into account as well, claiming that the ability must be some manifestation of John's observation skills on an unconscious level.

Whatever the reason may have been John was used to following these instincts, knew to trust them when they arose, and now he knew. Oh he knew.

"Sherlock…" He rasped, feet breaking into a run.

XXX

"What the hell happened Mycroft?" John hissed. He paced around the small medical alcove he followed the gurney to. His worst fears being confirmed when he spied the small prone form with raven hair lying upon it. The pajamas the boy and John had bargained over that morning had been replaced with a hospital gown and Sherlock's head had been covered in a net of electrodes whose findings danced on the nearby screen of the EEG. The doctor in John was momentarily intrigued by the contraption, he had never seen a wireless Electroencephalograph, never thought he would with the leaps made in the realms of MRI and CT, but this thought soon faded out, drowned by his dread. A heart monitor beeped in the background, a reminder of Sherlock's continued yet feeble existence.

"He was fine. When I left he was fine and now—." John could feel hot pressure building in his sinuses. He was a doctor, damn it, how could he be so helpless in this situation? Feeling all of the energy drain out of him the solider dropped into the vacant chair on the other side of Sherlock's bed. He attempted to scrub the warmth out of his eyes, but only succeeded in causing neon blues and pinks to explode in the darkness behind his lids.

"They must be thinking seizure," John murmured to himself, then sat up as a thought occurred to him. "Is that something David suffers from? Another side effect of this bloody experiment?" The questions were directed toward Mycroft, but the man stayed silent. He had been that way since he was led into the room and directed to a chair, only moving once to fold his brother's hand into his own. "Mycroft-?"

No response.

"Mycroft?" John looked, and for the first time really observed the man sitting across from him. His face was haggard and pale and his eyes had the faraway look Sherlock wore when a case was proving to be exceptionally taxing. It was the worst state the army doctor had ever witnessed the other man in and he found himself wondering if Mycroft had the same tendency as his brother to ignore his transport when working on a pressing matter. When was the last time Mycroft had eaten, really eaten? Or even slept?

John got up and stood next to the other man placing his hand atop the brother's joined ones. "How about you take a break Mycroft? Go home and rest for a bit. I'll stay here." He offered with a tired smile.

"I can't." They were the first words John had heard the other man utter in the last hour and the disuse of his voice was apparent in its scratchy timbre.

"Why not?" John settled himself onto the foot of the bed so he could face the older brother. He had not realized until doing so that Sherlock's body only took up a fraction of the cot and he desperately tried to ignore the fact now that it was in his mind.

"He forgave me." Mycroft's thumb stroked the back of his sibling's pale hand. "I left him. Left him alone, betrayed his trust and still he forgave me. I will not do so again. Not in his time of need."

John studied the government official. He did not completely understand the Holmes brother's relationship. They obviously had a sibling revelry for the history books, and they were not what the doctor would describe as close, but there was a begrudging sense of trust between the two of them. John had witnessed it only once or twice in the ten years he had known the men, most notably in Sherlock's explanation of how the detective had survived his fall from Bart's roof (which took two years of nagging on John's part to finally get). Staring at him now the doctor could not help but wonder if this, this brotherly devotion was some leftover of an earlier time.

"Alright Mycroft, alright. Let me see what I can do, maybe get you a sedative so you can get some sleep, yeah?"

Mycroft nodded but did not move his eyes from his brother's face. "He was not always as he is," the ginger furrowed his brow, "or I suppose as he was when you knew him. I am sure you have noticed by now that Sherlock was a sensitive child; even with father's influence he remained anticipative if socially clumsy amongst his peers. Mummy and Stewart showered him with love, and while he was always weary of it, Sherlock reciprocated as well as could be expected given the relationship he endured with Father. It was not until he went to University that he changed."

"He was always thin, but there he became skeletal. His aloofness turned into distain for others as he gave up on most human relationships after a devastating prank played upon him by his roommate."

Sabastian Wilkes. John knows without a doubt this "buddy" is the one who Mycroft is referring to. The solider would have to properly repay him if they ever met again.

"He would be up for days on end working in the labs and then he stopped phoning home. I think I knew right away, but was blinded by my emotional connection to him. By the time I acted it was too late. Cocaine has many effects as I am sure you know Doctor Watson, the most lasting in my brother's case was an alteration of his personality, where his intelligence had made him slightly awkward the drugs left him cold, scathingly direct, and highly irritable. By the time he finished rehabilitation for the third time he was clean, but hardly recognizable as the boy he was before."

John nodded to show he was listening. He had managed to wave down a passing nurse, or at least he assumed he was a nurse, who returned with another cot and a sedative for the drained man. With a sigh Mycroft removed his suit coat, lovingly draping it over his brother and offering his arm up without much thought.

"You will watch over him, won't you?" The pleading look on the normally strong man threw John off for a moment, but he found the strength to nod.

"Yes. Of course I will."

This promise made, Mycroft Holmes climbed onto the second cot, letting himself slip into a dreamless sleep as the nurse slid across a fabric divider.

XXX

There was a beeping.

Beep.

Beep.

Beep.

Beep. Beep.

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

It was speeding up. Why was it speeding up? Sherlock's eyes felt heavy and gritty and his mouth dry. He wiggled his toes experimentally and found them to be surrounded by something scratchy, not the soft pajamas he had been wearing before. He did not like that. Not one bit.

"Lock? Can you hear me?"

The boy attempted to open his eyes he blinked several times before he could focus on the source of the sound.

"Hi John." Sherlock tried to smile, but it came out as more of a grimace. He had not realized how badly his head hurt until he opened his eyes; it was throbbing in time with the beeping in the room. He brought a hand up to prod his forehead only to have his fingers brush against a tangle of wire.

The boy shot up.

Panic.

The pounding in his head increased. His heart, he instinctually knew, that was his heartbeat. Sherlock could feel it reverberating through his limbs, ending in a pulsating in his toes and fingertips. The beeping too kicked up, singing in harmony with his sky rocketing pulse.

"Hey, hey you're okay." A warm hand came to rest on Sherlock's back, rubbing soothing circles there. The effect was instantaneous. Sherlock went limp, allowing his body to slump forward into John's awaiting chest, taking comfort in his friend's touch. He took deep breaths, greedily taking in the smell of tea and laundered wool as he focused on the callused hand on his back. He could feel his pulse slow until the pounding in his head became a dull ache. John was here. John would keep him safe.

"Did they- did they turn me into a robot?" Despite feeling calmer he could not stop a sob from escaping.

_You machine!_

Sherlock gasped as the echo rang through his head. That was John. John's voice angry and accusatory and directed at him, Sherlock was not sure how he knew this, only that it was true. He wrapped his arms around John's torso, holding tight in fear that his friend would push him away at any moment.

"I don' wanna be a mac'ine! I don't John!" Tears flooded forth now. Sherlock tried to hold them back but was only rewarded with hiccups. He buried his face deeper into John's jumper smearing snot and tears in the process.

"Sher-?" John was attempting to comfort when the EEG began beeping rapidly. Sherlock's gamma waves had spiked. Odd.

"Shhh…. You're alright mate." John soothed returning his attention to his friend. "You're not a robot. You're not a machine."

"But, but the wires… an' you said… you called me a mac'ine."

"Oh." John breathed, his eyes finding the EEG read out once more. The doctor tried not to think about that day, had worked hard to push it from his mind, but he found his words just hours before his friend jumped still haunted him. "No Lock, you're not a machine." John pulled the boy into a tight hug, relief flooding him as he felt his friend melt into him. "Those are electrodes on your head. They're measuring your brain waves. See?" The doctor nudged his friend until he looked at the lines on the monitor near the bed.

Sherlock rubbed his eyes with a fist as he turned to look at the read outs. He quirked his left eye brow as he turned around to face John. "Tha's not wha my brain looks like."

"No. I don't suppose it does." John repositioned himself so his back was against the headboard and pulled Sherlock onto his lap until his back rested against John's stomach. "So you've been in your mind palace then?" Sherlock reclined back with an audible huff letting his head thud down on John's chest.

"I didn' want you to worry." He murmured. The boy pulled John's arm across his small chest, his fingers rolled the jumper's fabric to and fro.

"It's my job to worry Lock." John offered. He wanted to run his fingers through the boy's hair, but was impeded by the technology resting on his friend's head.

"An' I haven' been in." Sherlock added in defense. "Sometimes I'm ou'side, but the door is locked." I don' like it," he muttered. "It's haunted."

"What do you mean haunted?"

"It's fallen' apart John. Bricks are missen' and some of the windows are broken, an' if I get close they come for me."

"Who?" John paused, but the boy in his arms stayed silent. "Sherlock who's coming after you?"

"The ghosts." The admittance came in a whisper.

"Ghosts?" Even though he would never be considered a superstitious man John instinctively pulled Sherlock closer to him.

"They come out of the castle and they grab me. They whisper an'… an' show me things." Sherlock turned suddenly and buried his face into the crook of John's neck. "They're tryin' to get inside me John. They're tryin' to take me over, wanna gobble me up 'til I'm gone."

XXX

John closed his eyes tight, causing his forehead to crinkle under the stress and then sighed, "What do you need me to do?"

Stapleton turned to the doctor, pinning him with her gaze. "Reawaken his memories."

John chuckled grimly squeezing the bridge of his nose. "Easier said than done."

"No, not really." Stapleton set about replacing folders and resetting the observation room. "In theory the process should be relatively simple, especially for you."

"For me?" John stuttered. "Why?"

"Do you recall Sherlock's first examination? When the three of you came to my home? I asked him about how the two of you met—."

"—And Sherlock had an intense physical reaction. I recall, yeah."

"No he had a reaction when the process was interrupted, a physical response triggered by his stream of consciousness being interrupted."

John leveled a look back at the woman. "I've seen Sherlock remember things, it is not a pleasant experience for him."

"Ah, yes." The scientist picked up a folder, marking a few things in it. "You're referring to the cold sweats, constricted pupils, accelerated heart rate and—," she flipped to another page and John realized it was Sherlock's chart, "increased respiration."

John stared. It was difficult to hear someone list his friend's symptoms so callously. "Yes," John took a deep breath trying to keep a cool head, "that's what I'm referring to."

"Doctor Watson," Stapleton sighed, "Mr. Holmes was given a substance made to, among other things, block out existing memories past a certain developmental period. Even if his brain has found a way to withstand and maintain against it, it would be reasonable to expect some side effects."

"Side effects." John chuckled, feeling his anger rising.

"Yes doctor, side effects. I'll admit this situation is not ideal on a scientific or medical front, but we must do what we can with the situation we have found ourselves in." The petite brunette's voice rose as her speech carried on, tiring of dialogue when something could be done. "Are you willing to do whatever it takes? Whatever is necessary to help Sherlock Holmes come back to himself as much as possible?"

"Of course. Of course I will. Whatever it takes." The solider found these words to be true before they ever left his mouth. He would do anything for his friend, always would.

"Good. Then next time he begins to remember something, don't interfere. No matter the physical reaction, despite his apparent fear, you cannot intervene."

"But—."

"No, listen. According to your own accounts and my observations each time Sherlock has one of these fits his recovery takes longer and the effects are more intense. We don't know what long term effects this could have on him. On his mind." She paused then, turning back to the now darkened window separating their room from that of David. "We have to act quickly doctor; we may not have any more time to waste."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, there you go! I hope to update again soon. 
> 
> Oh! On a kind of related note my old Uni roommate and I have started a tumblr account. It is called Warofthefeels and is basically full of us tormenting each other through text and with things we find on the Internet about our various fandoms. If you're a glutton for punishment (and lets face it, if you're reading my stuff you probably are) like us then you should check it out. She's Watson and I'm Holmes.  
> Here is a link: https://www.tumblr.com/blog/warofthefeels 
> 
> Thank you for reading, and an extra special thanks to all of you who are following this story, have left a comment, or pushed that kudos button. You've all kept my desire to write alive despite the pain, and for that I will forever be grateful.
> 
> Until next time,
> 
> Nikola


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Life has been insane with school starting back up (all of the lesson plans!), but I have an extra long chapter to make up for not updating for a bit. Thank you again to my amazing beta Cassie and to everyone who is reading, following, or left a kudo for this story.
> 
> Now on to Chapter 18!

John sat silently as the quivering child's words sunk in.

Sherlock's mind palace was failing, beginning to crumble because its caretaker had been unable (and perhaps unwilling) to enter its halls. Sherlock had described its exterior as falling apart. Who knew what kind of damage would be found inside? Was it even structurally sound? Did that matter in a mental construct and how could John ask a child, this amazing, brilliant boy he held in his arms that trusted him so completely, to enter it?

Even if he could there was no guarantee that the man who returned would be the same as before. Sherlock had professed to John many times in the past that he was his mind, his ability to think and nothing more. While the doctor knew there was much more to his friend he could not help but wonder what would become of him if some of that was lost. John knew he would never abandon his Sherlock that he would stay with the detective no matter what, but what would happen to Sherlock if he found himself unable to recall or even preform as he used to? Would Sherlock notice the difference? Or would the memory of his past be altered as well?

What if in finding a way in, the palace crumbled? Would Sherlock be trapped inside? Or worse yet, what if upon entering the mind palace all of the loose memories assailed his friend at once? Would Sherlock make it out, or would he forever be trapped inside? His body prone as John had so often found him when the detective was deep in his mind, never to resurface?

Yet with all of these thoughts colliding in his head John could also imagine the possibility of everything working out. Of Sherlock becoming himself again, complaining about boredom, preforming ridiculous experiments in the kitchen, and the two of them chasing down criminals together in London. The muscles in John's chest constricted, causing an ache to permeate deep there within. He missed him, his ridiculous nutter of a flat mate. Missed the way Sherlock could look at the doctor after he had been out and deduce where he had been without lifting himself from his armchair, how his flounced around a crime scene as though it were a party with the detective set in the place of guest of honor, when Sherlock's eyes twinkled with the quiet delight of a shared joke, and his amiable presence on the nights when the flat mates would stay up late talking in the night as friends often do. He missed Sherlock Holmes: Consultant Detective, but more importantly he missed his best friend.

"We should talk ta Mycoff." The solider felt a tiny hand fist itself in the fabric of his jumper. John looked up to find inquisitive blue eyes peering into his own. "He'll know wha ta do." Sherlock nodded his head earnestly as though to convince both of them of this truth. John smiled a small smile, realizing the boy had figured out his worry over the situation despite it all having been internal. He really was quite clever, and the concern and adoration he showed towards John was, for lack of a better word, sweet. This thought pulled at the doctor's heart causing it to twinge again. John's brow furrowed in confusion at the strange feeling, a peculiar mix of sadness and warmth.

"John?" The man in question shook his head to find Sherlock's eyes now locked onto him with a tinge of worry.

"Yes. Mycroft, right." John smiled, pushing the emotion away to focus on his charge, gripping the boy's shoulder in a reassuring manner even as he tried to ignore the still viable tear tracks on Sherlock's round cheeks. "I'm not sure how much help he will be at the moment—." John's words were cut off by an audible grumble from the direction of Sherlock's stomach, causing the doctor to chuckle and Sherlock to throw his hands over the offending area as a blush crept onto his cheeks. "But I think he will be ready of us after you've had some lunch."

XXX

"'M bored John."

John looked down in bemusement from the paper a nurse had given him at the child who was dramatically sprawled across his lap. With John still sitting on the bed Sherlock had laid in a fashion similar to how he did when claiming the couch as an adult, taking up as much space as his limb would allow with exception to one arm which was flung dramatically over his eyes. John tried to feel insulted at being made into a piece of furniture, but found he really could not. Sherlock was warm and heavy and John felt incredibly comforted by rise and fall of the small body with each breath.

"Really?" John intoned, pretending to be more interested in the paper then he really was as he licked his finger to flip the page. "What kind of board are you then? Oak? Or maybe a pine?"

"Joooohn." Sherlock groaned, "tha's not wha I mean."

John dropped the paper from his face in mock surprise. "It isn't?" In response Sherlock flung his arm off his eyes with a frustrated sigh and pinned John with his most vexed glare, an action which only egged John on all the more.

"Are you sure?" John asked setting the paper beside him in the bed. Despite himself Sherlock felt himself perk up at having his friend's attention on him. "You're not ash," the solider quickly brought his hands down, his fingers attacking the slight pudge of the child's belly, "or cherry?"

Sherlock let out a surprised shriek and tried to pull his knees to his chest to block the barrage, but the effect was no good against the tickling. "Jawn!" He gasped between bouts of laughter. While attempting to fend off the attack one of Sherlock's hands managed to knock off the electrode net which rested on his head. John shrugged internally. He could reset it later, the machine was not that different from the ones he had used in his residency and after the seriousness of the day the both of them could use a good laugh.

"No? Maybe larch? Is that what you are Sherlock? A larch board?" He continued to tickle finding that every inch of the boy's body seemed to be susceptible to the soft movements of his fingers.

"No!" Sherlock cried in obvious delight. He enjoyed this, playing with John, trying to hold him off and laughing. Letting his lungs fill with air until it all came bursting back out in rapid glee. John had looked so worried after Sherlock told him about the castle and the ghosts, but now he was smiling. Not just with his mouth like John did sometimes when he was sad but pretending to be happy, but his eyes were smiling too making the lines on his face deepen with delight.

Finally Sherlock was able to wiggle free and quickly clambered down the side of the bed, his bare feet landing on the cool tile with a nearly silent smack.

"Sherlock," he heard John giggle. "Where do you think you're going?"

Sherlock quickly assessed the situation. A portion of the room was sectioned off by a hanging partition of fabric, the only other means of escape was the door through which the nurse had come to check on them and left to retrieve something for them to eat. Sherlock's goal though was not escape. He wished to expand the game and surmised that running away from the room and down the hall would only make John cross, so that left only one option.

"Come and get me!" Sherlock teased. His feet quickly carried him toward the thin blue fabric as a giggle he could not contain escaped his mouth. He ran straight into the textile wall, allowing his speed to pull it up and over his head.

Vaguely he was aware of John calling his name, of how his tone suddenly dropped from happy to worried, of this he was only minimally mindful though, for in the bed before him lay his older brother.

XXX

Sherlock could only remember seeing his brother sick one time before. Long before Father had decided to send Mycroft away Mummy had loaded Sherlock into the car and they had gone to pick his brother up from the public school down the road. When Sherlock saw his Mycroft's figure coming down the hall he was extremely excited. He often had to wait hours before his brother was returned to him and he was not about to let the opportunity of being reunited before then slip through his fingers. Making his wants known to his mother Sherlock was finally allowed freedom of her hold and began to run towards his brother. It was not until he was closer that he noticed something was wrong.

He could see a shiver wrack his brother's frame as his body loped forward and noticed how sweat dripped down his forehead. Sherlock saw these two signs and was stopped in his tracks with confusion. When people were hot they sweat, but Mycroft was shivering, which Sherlock knew from experience only happened when one was cold. Finding the presence of both being too warm and too cold in the elder Sherlock continued his approach, a little wary but driven by his determination to understand and the desire to be with his brother.

Only when they were separated by a small distance did Mycroft seem to notice his younger brother's presence.

Mycroft took in the boy before him. The dark tangle of curls, pale skin, pacifier (which Mummy told him he would have to give up soon), and inquisitive eyes with his own, glazed and lacking in their usual intelligent light for what seemed like an eternity before finally speaking.

"Lockie?" The elder's voice came out hoarse, and the confused squint of the eye which accompanied it sent alarms ringing in Sherlock's head. He had taken a cautious step back. Yes, something was terribly wrong. This was his brother, but at the same time he seemed warped, slow in a way that frightened the child so awfully he had contemplated running back to Mummy and away from this Mycroft that was not quite Mycroft. By then though, Mummy was beside him and had taken both his and Mycroft's hands and led them both towards the car.

At home Sherlock had peered into his brother's room, a place which had

often been his refuge during thunderstorms and an ocean whilst the two played pirate. Now though he stood outside, fearful of entering. Mummy had said that Mycroft was sick and that he would be better in a few days as long as he got his rest, and so Sherlock stood vigil in the hall, too afraid of waking his brother and having him look at him in such an unknowing way once more, but more apprehensive of leaving and having the rest of Mycroft slip away until there was nothing of him left.

XXX

Sherlock stood frozen, watching the body of his brother as it lay on its side rise and fall on the bed. His eyes took in everything of the man before him, the sweat stains usually hidden by his brother's over coat, but now visible on his white button up shirt, the way his hair stuck out in every direction a distinct difference from Mycroft's usual tidy appearance, the dark circles under his eyes, and how pale the rest of his skin seemed. What really worried the boy though was the fact that Mycroft was asleep. His brother had always been a light sleeper; any noise would wake him from slumber, so the fact that he and John had just been causing quite a ruckus without rousing him caused Sherlock's knees to shake involuntarily.

Something was wrong with Mycroft.

The urge to flee, to run back the direction he had come and bury his face into John was strong. John was okay. John was safe. He still had John, but he found it impossible to move, to take his eyes off of his brother. He could not lose his brother. He cared for his brother, loved his brother.

He blinked, noticing the tears which had formed in his eyes at this thought, and the fact that John was now crouched before him. The happiness had left his friend's face and worry had replaced it once more.

"Fix him." The request had come out a whisper which would not do. Sherlock tried again, "Fix him." He said it more firmly this time his eyes turning to plead with John, who disgustingly did not seem to understand.

"You're a doctor," Sherlock explained feeling frustration rise in his chest. He could do nothing. He was helpless and the realization of this was making it hard to think, hard to breath. He had just gotten Mycroft back. He could not lose him now. Frustrated when his friend did nothing but try to question him Sherlock finally gave up and raced around John and up a chair which helped him finish the climb into his brother's bed. Once there he pushed himself under one of the man's arms until he was tucked in close to his chest. He had hoped the motion would cause Mycroft to stir, that he would come awake and bemoan about how Sherlock was too old to sneak into his bed, but the man did no such thing.

Sherlock whimpered and burrowed closer until he could hear his brother's heart beating, more proof that he was at least alive.

"Sherlock," John sighed finally understanding. "Lock he's just sleeping." The doctor pulled up one of the chairs so he could sit next to the bed. He had been worried the boy's shuffling would awaken the man, but it seemed the sedative combined with Mycroft's exhaustion were keeping him far from the happenings of the world.

Sherlock huffed. Obviously something was wrong…but John… if John thought Mycroft was alright…

Sherlock rolled himself over so he could see his friend, but was still lodged under his brother's arm. Like this, his brother's heat surrounding him, Sherlock could almost pretend everything was as it should be. That Mycroft was eleven and had allowed his little brother climb into his bed during a thunderstorm and would protect him through every roar of sound and flash of light.

"Why doesn' he wake up?" Sherlock's eyes focused on the blonde, but instead of their usual intensity they held only worry.

"He's been working really hard lately. I don't think he's been eating or sleeping enough if at all."

Sherlock contemplated this quietly. "But Myc likes to eat."

John felt a sad chuckle leave his lips. When Sherlock had been older that had been a point Sherlock enjoyed throwing at his brother whenever the chance was given, but now the doctor could see this fact whirling through the child's head forming connections in that brilliant but currently endangered brain of his.

"It's 'cause of me." The boy whispered.

"No." John shook his head to reiterate this as he leaned forward. "Sherlock we gave him a sedative, a medication to help him sleep-."

"I know wha a sed'tive is!" The boy growled gripping onto his brother's arm tightly. His eyes blazed at his friend. He was tired of everyone underestimating him, underestimating his ability to understand words, and underestimating his ability to realize his own fault in this situation. How

could John deny his doing in this?

"If there was nothin' wrong with me Mycoff would be fine!" Like a castle built on the beach, Sherlock's anger began to crumble as fear lapped against its walls. "It's 'cause of me." The boy shook, a cold settling deep inside him so even the heat radiating off of his brother could not reach it. In contrast to this heat welled up in his eyes and his mouth began to fill with saliva. He was sure instinctually that if he had eaten anything recently it would no longer have been in his stomach.

Sherlock felt something wrap around him and begin to pull him. Pull him away, away from his brother, away for Mycroft.

"NO!" Sherlock shrieked, grabbing for the expensive fabric of the government official's sleeve. His breath came in shuddering huffs as he kicked blindly, attempting to fight off whatever was trying to separate him from his sibling. He clung violently to the fistful of cloth still encased in left hand while his right swung behind him trying to fend off the attacker when material slipped from his sweaty clutch as he was pulled away. A shriek of rage, pain, and fear ripped its way out of Sherlock's throat causing his body to tense and all the muscles in his body to strain.

_Your fault. All your fault. Stupid Sherlock. Stupid useless boy._

Sherlock's brain assaulted him and he took it, took it all because he knew it was true.

_This is why father can't stand you. Appalling little mistake._

_Did you observe Mycroft? Or were you too simple to see it? Shirt days worn, slight oil stain of the left cuff, he's been worrying it between his fingers one of Mycroft's tells of extreme stress. Nervous energy: needs something to do with his hands. Perhaps this is why he carries an umbrella as an adult. Hiding his weakness, transforming it into something intimidating, cleaver, but then he always was the smart one. A true Holmes, no disappointment there, and let's see what else we can get from the shirt, hmmm?_

Sherlock knew he had his hands clamped over his ears, his eyes squeezed shut. The world offered too much. Too much stimulus, too many sights, sounds and smells to deal with.

_Too many? Oh I'd say there isn't enough. The world. What does it have to offer? The same problems, the same people, day after day, year after year, it's all the same. Sure the faces, the names, they change, but that's arbitrary. Nothing new, nothing important, just plebeians thinking themselves significant but most of them come and go, their only mark left being the dirt moved to bury their bodies._

Sherlock hummed, trying to block out the incessant stream in his head. He had dealt with it before; his mind was always like this, a constant stream of thoughts, questions, and deductions but now it had turned against him.

_…_ _So stupid, thinking you matter. All you've been good for is bringing others down. See what you've done to Mycroft? He's lost at least a stone. Yes look at the shirt, and the shadows on his face, obvious really. Elementary but what could we expect from you, really? Father was right. See what caring causes? Your brother cared, cared for you, and it's been his down fall. You'll kill him, he'll die and it will be your fault, but then everything is isn't it? Mummy would be happier without you and so would father you worthless litt-._

Silence so complete and serene wrapped around him to the point that it startled him. Sherlock inhaled sharply in shock.

"Shhhh," a warm voice buzzed about him and Sherlock noticed that he had somehow become swaddled in a scratchy but comfortably familiar fabric. The boy buried his face into the knit letting the wool rub against his cheeks and John's scent to fill his lungs. His body slumped into the comfort, the tension melting out of him until his entire being was numb.

"There you are. That's it. That's my Sherlock."

Sherlock gasped, "John." The name was like a balm to the handful of nerves still resisting the calm, cooling them and allowing the boy to sink into this friend bonelessly.

"It's alright. You're alright." John soothed letting his hand work through the boy's tangle of dark curls. "Mycroft is going to be alright too. You'll see."

"You made it quiet." Sherlock murmured. "How'd you do tha, John?"

XXX

Peas. He hated peas.

Sherlock pushed the offending vegetable around

with his fork trying to derive a way to hide them when John was not watching. It was not the most challenging task, but it gave him something else to think about, some puzzle to mull over to keep his thoughts away from his current predicament.

The boy lifted the fork, using the handle to itch at his scalp. The doctors had repositioned the electrodes on his head and Sherlock was finding it hard to ignore their presence.

"Oi! Stop that!" Sherlock peaked at John out of the corner of his eye. His friend was not mad, but obviously did not want Sherlock itching with the cutlery. Heaving a heavy sigh so John understood the sacrifice he was making, Sherlock went back to pushing around his food. Perhaps the mashed potatoes would prove a satisfying-.

"Sherlock." The boy in question could feel John's eyes on him. In truth the solider had barely looked away, only stepping out of the room once to talk with another doctor in the hall. "Listen mate, I think it's time we talked about your mind palace."

John watched Sherlock tense but then continue to push food around his plate. It caused a pang in the doctor's chest to see the poorly hidden fear. He wanted nothing more than to keep Sherlock safe.

"I don' wanna go in." The quiet admission surprised John.

"You don't have to," although he was more surprised to feel those words leave his lips.

Sherlock too seemed stunned by what John had said before letting his head fall back on the pillow with a huff.

"Don' lie to me John." The boy sounded tired and so rescind to his fate.

"I'm not lying Lock. This is your choice. Completely yours." John's voice rose because he understood. It had been sudden like a parting of the clouds or a flash of lightning, but it all seemed so simple now. He briefly wondered if this was what it had been like for Sherlock on a case, seeing all the pieces come together until you could not imagine them apart.

Sherlock turned his head to eye John, noticing the change in his tone. "But if I don' get better Myc won' either."

"No Sherlock don't you see?" He scooted his chair closer to the bed in excitement. "We've been looking at this like you are sick, but maybe we were wrong."

Sherlock leveled John with his 'you idiot' glare. It's appearance along with the giddy relief of solving a problem causing a giggle to erupt from his mouth.

"No hear me out. Mycroft has been working himself to death to find a way to help you grow up, so if you don't have to grow up then there is no problem for Mycroft to solve and he will be fine." John sat back satisfied to have an answer.

Sherlock stared at John and knew what had happened. John had lost it. The stress of the situation had driven him insane. "John," Sherlock started cautiously, "I'm not s'pposed to be little. I hafta grow up."

"And you will," John smiled, "We'll just have to let you do it the old fashion way."

Sherlock tried to absorb the words John had just said, but it seemed as though his head was full of cotton, making it hard to think. Grow up one year at a time? The thought was almost too much to take. He would not have to be the man he caught glimpses of; the one John had called a machine. He could keep being himself, and he and John could go on adventures like—oh.

"I could stay with you?"

"Of course." John sputtered. He could not imagine his life without Sherlock.

The boy looked back down at his plate and now cold food. "So you would become my father?" Sherlock wanted to be with John, but did not want him to change, to be transformed by whatever that title did to people.

Sensing his friend's worry John lifted his hand to tilt the boy's face back up. "Sherlock listen to me. I don't know how to be a father," he grimaced remembering his Mary and their unborn child, the life he was never to hold in his arms. John cleared his throat of the sudden emotion, "I never got the chance, but I do know how to be your friend, and I will happily continue that relationship."

A smile pulled at Sherlock's face. It was involuntary and instantaneous, a muscle response to the happiness flowing through him. He could stay with John, stay away from the looming castle in his mind. It looking weak close to crumbling, with any luck it would fall in on itself before much longer and the whispering ghosts would go away. He would have his family, Mycroft, Mrs. Hudson, Mummy (when she made it back to the continent), and John.

John who was his best friend, who took care of him, made him laugh, and kept a gun in his room.

Because he liked adventure, liked danger.

Kind, caring, self-sacrificing John.

Sherlock's lips fell as he dropped his eyes away from his friend. He used his

fork to smash the peas one back one, causing the skins to split and the green mash to spread over the plastic plate.

"Sherlock?" John furrowed his brow unsure of what had suddenly transpired in the boy's mind.

"You said I don' have to do anything I don' wanna, right?" Sherlock continued the obliteration of his peas. Slaying one by one as the bystanders watched in silent horror.

"That's right?" The statement indeed a question.

"Then I don' wanna eat my peas."

John's startled laugh filled the room. Sherlock smiled, that was what he hoped would happen. He wanted to make John laugh one more time, just in case. He took a moment to savor it, let the notes fill his mind. When the chortle calmed down Sherlock turned to look at his friend, unable to keep the fear out of his eyes.

"But I hafta go in."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Please leave a comment if you feel inclined.
> 
> -Nikola


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has not been edited because my beta is working on IEPs but demanded that I get this out immediately. Hopefully we can go back and fix things later. I hope you still enjoy.

The structure stood in a valley encircled by deciduous forests. At one point, the child mused, it must have been beautiful. The bay windows filled with stained glass, the moat which had once provided it protection, but that must have been long ago.

Now the moat stood overrun with algae and the windows broken.

Sherlock exhaled, the breath feeling shaky upon his lips, the puff of air visibly quivering as it crystalized before him in the cold.

It must have been loved, this castle, cared for beyond the call of duty in its time. Sherlock could almost imagine it, the sun gleaming off of the ward, warming the land and stone. Now though it was unsympathetic, lifeless. Sherlock clenched his hands as John did when preparing himself for something. If it helped John to be brave, maybe it would help him too.

He marched closer, over the creaking footbridge towards the next barbican. To his left the boy noted the curtain wall, with belfry stood before it. That was where it happened he surmised, after passing the perimeter protections, that was where the first attack had begun.

It hit him fast. An image. No, Sherlock reminded himself as it pierced his skin, digging deep into his very being. A memory, a memory of his life before.

_Sherlock Holmes. I was warned about you. I've been on your website too. Brilliant stuff. Loved it._

_Who warned you about me?_

_Someone out there who's noticed._

_Who? Who would notice me?_

_You're too modest Mr. Holmes._

_I'm really not._

It came in fragments, always did. Focus. He had to focus.

_Why is he doing this, the bomber? If this woman's death was suspicious why point it out?_

_Good Samaritan._

_Who press-gangs suicide bombers?_

_Bad Samaritan._

Another one came pushing through. It hurt, trying to take in these large jagged pieces and accommodate them into his being.

Sherlock gasped, falling to his knees as the weight of the memory crushed upon him. But it was not just the memory, no, it was the emotions that accompanied them. The thrill, the anticipation, and the excitement of finding someone else like him. The boy's stomach lurched as the feelings worked from his head down to the tips of his toes. They were his, his thoughts and emotions. How could that be him?

Focus.

Keep going.

He had to keep going.

Sherlock pushed himself back onto his feet and continued forward.

_Single ring._

_Maximum pressure just under the half-second._

_Client._

He stumbled over the brick rubble; a hole, punched through the machicolation allowed the boy to cross the final portion of the moat, filling in a space which would have once been covered by a draw bridge.

Almost there.

Just a little further….

_You can't be allowed to continue. You just can't. I would try to convince you. Everything I have to say has already crossed your mind._

NO. Not him. He couldn't be. He wasn't….

"JOHN!" Sherlock shrieked but forced his eyes to stay closed. He had to stay inside. He was close and this… it was…it was important.

"I'm here mate. I'm right here." John soothed, laying his hand on the boy's back but trying not to pull him back into consciousness. They had to be careful. John had known the detective to experience different levels of alertness while deep in his thoughts, ranging from seemingly comatose to carrying on full conversations (whether the other participant was or was not present), but it took everything, all of his control not to huddle his friend close to him now.

The beeping in the room reached the boy's ears as he turned to bury his face in the pillow, trying to ignore the shaking of his body and the way the florescent lights attempted to permeate his brain through his eyelids. "Joooohn," he whimpered, breathe burning his ragged throat.

"Shhhh, you're okay." John rubbed his friend's back in slow circles that he hoped were soothing. The doctor had comforted his fair amount of people in his life, but he was finding his own nerves were becoming frayed as the boy's expedition wore on. He was barely keeping it together just watching the child go through this experience, how Sherlock was coping was beyond him. Bending he dipped his face into the forest of curls and planted a kiss amid the wires and electrodes. "You're doing so well." He whispered, hoping his words would reach Sherlock wherever he was.

"He seems to be getting closer." Another voice added.

Dr. Stapleton. Sherlock could imagine her fiddling with a piece of technology. The EEG. That's what John called it. "His gamma wave activity has picked up. I think we can count that as an improvement."

"Can't we give him something?" John looked over at the heart monitor, worrying his lip as he wiped Sherlock's neck with a flannel, the sweat accumulating there looking uncomfortable even if they boy could not voice his frustration. "I'm concerned about his blood pressure."

"Anything we give him for pain or anxiety could alter his mental state." Stapleton explained while marking some readings onto a chart. She was calm, as though she were simply running an experiment in her laboratory not trying to save one of the greatest minds in London. "The good such an administration could supply is greatly outweighed by the possible negative ramifications."

"A simple no would have sufficed thanks." John mumbled, turning back to the child before him.

Stapleton exhaled slowly. "You are emotionally invested in the outcome of this. My job is to keep a level, scientific head which I intend to do."

"Yes, well. It wouldn't hurt for you to show a little empathy. He's just a child."

Stapleton let out another sigh, "No doctor, he isn't. He is a man who has been regressed to a child, whose memories are hopefully still salvageable." She turned to him then. "You told me you would do anything to get Sherlock Holmes back. Have you changed your mind?"

John looked down at the child before him, surprised to find his tiny hand had wrapped around two of John's fingers just as it had done for the first time…was it only days ago? It felt like a lifetime had passed since John had been woken by another one of Sherlock's experiments and stormed out of the flat.

And God did he miss him. The wild flights across London after criminals, the humor that was a bit not good, the amazing deductions, even the moody sulks. John missed his best friend. But the thought of losing the child before him…

"Why do you ask?" John replied, clearing his throat after hearing the emotion it betrayed.

"I've been looking over his brother's notes," Stapleton explained, "and I have a theory which may speed along the process. Tell me Doctor Watson, what do you know about music and memory?"

XXX

The guardhouses stood empty as Sherlock entered the bailey. All around him battlements were scattered in ruin, abandon by the guard who had sworn to protect what lie within the walls. Weapons dropped during the fight were skewed about on the packed ground. A great battle had taken place here, but who was the victor? What had been the outcome?

Sherlock's gaze roamed the parapet walk, he could not shake the feeling that he was being watched, that an enemy was lurking, ready to attack at any moment. He could be surrounded for all he knew, could be walking into a trap, he was completely exposed out in the open.

An unwelcomed whimper passed his lips as the boy felt his heart beat against his ribs. Maybe he shouldn't be here. He wished he wasn't alone. Mycroft would know what to do, or John. He had been a solider surely…

_"_ _Sentiment."_ A rumbling voice huffed. Sherlock startled at the bored droll as it echoed off the empty walls.

"H-hello?" Sherlock called back, wincing as his voice repeated back at him followed by silence. "Is…is anybody there?" He waited. Nothing. Utter stillness filled the world around him. Sherlock huffed, indignant about being ignored. "Rude." The boy mumbled under his breath, crossing his arms over his chest in sudden frustration.

A ruffle of fabric quickly pulled the boy out of his strop, Sherlock turned. What was that? His eyes fell upon a battered flag atop a turret on his right. Yes that could be the source… except the world was still, there was no breeze to cause the flag to sway or make sound.

Someone else was here, of that Sherlock was certain.

Keeping this thought in mind he moved forward, towards the castle and whatever waited inside.

XXX

Music and memory recall are closely linked. When one hears music, broad neural networks are engaged in the brain, including, but not limited to regions responsible for movement, emotions, and creativity. Song can provoke strong responses in people suffering from Alzheimer's disease, and those who have experienced a traumatic brain injury because a familiar piece of music can act as a soundtrack for a memory in the mind, often leading the listener back to memories from their past.

Music can call back recollections of a particular place, smells and sounds for instance, and even people. Many can hear a piece of music and find it connected to an individual. A tune can cause such strong recall that it can suddenly bring a person into the front of the listener's mind. These effects have been found to be even stronger when a song is not heard often. It is believed this is because the neural pathways representing the tune have stayed pure and untainted by other experiences causing the song to induce stronger memories from the listener's past than ones which has been rewritten again and again.

Stapleton knew this.

She had read about the effects of melody on memory when she had first been enlisted by the elder Holmes to find a cure for his little brother. The information had looked promising. She came upon research time and again showing positive results when the technique was used with Alzheimer's patients or those with memory loss. She had, however, written off the idea when Rewrite Subject One, David, she meant David showed no improvement on the treatment.

But then David did not have family to provide background information, and nobody provided information like Mycroft Holmes. She was currently holding a file of songs connected to various points in Sherlock's life to prove this point.

Stapleton looked down at said file and back up to the subject who lay in the bed. The British Government had made it clear, she was not to fail. Success at any cost, her job was on the line.

Decision made, she sent the text:

_13.12.77_

And hoped she had made the correct choice.

XXX

Sherlock spun in a slow circle to take in the view. He had assumed the interior of the castle would be grand, but the space he found himself in defied expectation. The trepidation he felt before entering the keep still lingered on the edges of his being, but it was being over taken by a mixture of awe and strangely, comfort. Sherlock could not recall ever being in this grand place, but something, an essence perhaps which seeped from its walls told him that this place, this palace belonged to him.

Or at least it had.

The scarlet hues of velvet draped about the stone walls and the accompanying images framed in gold all about him while grand held no meaning for the wandering boy. Sherlock veered cautiously from his path to inspect one portrait.

It was that of a puppy, a Red Setter. The painting showed the animal running through a field towards the viewer. Its ears, which were overlong in proportion to its body as most puppies' are, flapped back with the wind, its tail stood high and excited behind him (how Sherlock knew he was uncertain, but he was positive it was a male), and its eyes sparkled with unconditional love and adoration in a way only a skilled artist could capture.

Sherlock smiled.

It seemed rather odd to see an image such as this at the entrance of a medieval castle, but then Sherlock could not bring himself to care too much. After all, he had always wanted a dog, even more so once his brother left home. The image, like everything else was marred by a thick layer of dust, and this bothered Sherlock for reasons he could not fathom, but nonetheless acted upon. Pulling the sleeve of his jumper over his hand and standing on tip toe Sherlock reached up to clear off the image of the dog's face, the vibrant tones standing true without the dust to mask them.

"There you are," Sherlock grinned as he surveyed his work. Pulling the tarnished sleeve back into its place, Sherlock let his fingers linger above the brushstrokes.

It was silly, foolish even, but he wished so badly to trace the lines of the pup's features with his finger, to imagine that those eyes were looking at him in such a way.

And so he did.

At the contact the phantasmagorias hit so quickly it knocked away his breath.

_Mummy and Stewart had packed him into the car for a "surprise," which he supposed was Stewart's way of saying he was finally getting rid of him. He and Mummy had been married for five months now, and surly the man had finally come to the realization that his youngest step son was not worth the trouble he caused. Especially after that fight at school which had gotten him kicked out for three days. It was not his fault Jake Martenson's father was seeing someone other than the boy's mother. It was written all over his shoes for goodness sake!_

_Stupid. They were all so stupid. He would be glad never to see those other children again. He did not need them, he assured himself, he didn't need Stewart who surely despised him despite his smiles and easy laugh._

_His chest tightened and he blinked furiously to keep his eyes clear. He didn't need Mycroft who was too busy for him, and…and he did not need Mummy who had finally gotten away from Father only to marry another man who would become disappointed in him._

_"_ _Sherlock, dear come out and see what Stewart has for you." Mummy's voice sounded so pleased._

_His lungs burned knowing that she was about to betray him, about to leave him at some school alone. That was fine. He was alone anyway would always be…_

_And then he was led into a barn and toppled over by a throng of excited noses and wagging tails. He had been so startled by the strange situation that a surprised giggle left his lips, only for it to be smothered by wet sniffing and tongues smelling of puppy's breath._

_Five red puppies had ambushed him and forgetting his company he had reached up to try and push the horde off laughing with delight as the soft fur covered bodies playfully fought back and he finally righted himself into a sitting position on the straw._

_"_ _What do you think Sherlock?" Steward's voice sounded thrilled, as though he was just holding back his deep laugh. "You want to take one home?"_

_He had looked up stunned to find both Mummy and Stewart smiling down on him. Take one home? Did they mean to give him a puppy?_

_"_ _Why?" He questioned, suddenly on guard. With Father everything had been conditional; if he did what he was supposed to Father would follow through with his end of a deal. Example: if he behaved he could call Mycroft._

_Simple cause and effect._

_So what did Stewart expect from him? Why would this man give him a puppy after he had been in a fight at school?_

_"_ _Because," Stewart leaned down close, causing him to flinch and cover the one puppy still on his lap with his body the way Mycroft used to do to him when it was clear punishment was about to be handed out. When nothing happened he looked back at the man to find no ire visible in his features. After a moment Stewart continued, "Every captain needs a first mate."_

_A warm feeling suddenly engulfed his chest, and he could not be sure if it has for the puppy in his arms, or the man who had given it to him._

Sherlock gazed up at the vaulted ceiling of the entrance room. He felt dazed, thick and heavy with all the thoughts and feelings he had just taken in.

Maybe he should just lay here for a bit. Images were still soaking into him. All he had done was touch one of dozens of images on the wall and his head suddenly felt full to bursting. It was terrifying and yet…

Sherlock closed his eyes, sopping up everything flowing from the image.

_A fearless friend._

_Loyal and protective._

_Standing by him no matter what he did, what he said._

_Sun warmed chestnut-red fur soft under his fingers._

_An excited bark._

_And a name_

_There was a name there._

_What was…?_

A steady rhythm resounding off the floor caused Sherlock's eyes to spring open. Turning his head toward it he was met with a cold wet nose and intelligent brown eyes resting upon a pair of crossed paws. The thump, thump, thumping continued, and Sherlock could see the instrument responsible for the sound behind the mass of deep red fur, a flag of a tail beating expectantly behind the now fully grown dog.

Sherlock looked quizzically at the animal that had manifested next to him, the dog returned his gaze without change, save for the tempo of his tail picking up bravado.

It couldn't be… but it was.

"Red Beard?" The boy whispered shakily.

Taking this as his invitation the dog scrambled up and proceeded to lick Sherlock's face. Sherlock laughed, throwing his arms around Red Beard's neck and burying his face into his dog's warm fur.

"That's my clever boy!" Sherlock praised, sitting up and running his fingers through Red Beard's mane with obvious delight on both sides. "How could I have forgotten you?"

Red Beard in turn buried his nose into Sherlock's hair sniffing about his curls and ears as to examine this for himself, causing the boy to giggle at the sound and feeling of the wet nose on his scalp and in his ear. His search apparently complete, Red Beard's muzzle reappeared before Sherlock's face to give it a generous lick. Sherlock took this to mean all was forgiven.

Sherlock intended to thank him by rubbing all of his dog's favorite spots. All at once marveling at the fact he knew them (and had a dog! Wait until he told John) and that he could have ever forgotten.

During the reunion Sherlock was oblivious to the changes in his environment. If, for instance upon opening his eyes Sherlock had turned back to the portrait he now knew to be of his dog he would have found it bright and lacking in any of the dust he had felt so compelled to remove. Its frame sparkling and golden while the rest of the hall still stood in disarray, a murkiness clinging to their paint caused not just by time, but a scientific agent whose purpose was to bar them from his easy access.

And minutes after Red Beard's tail no longer beat on the ground he too would have discerned another melody quietly weaving its way through the castle halls.

A four on the floor beat snaking around corners and reverberating through large open spaces. Its reproduced drum track mechanical, the bass drum hitting on every beat with the intent to create a steady tune for one to dance to. That was, after all what disco was made for. What _The Bee Gees_ hoped to inspire with their hit song from _Saturday Night Fever._

But then intent is only nine tenths of the law.

Red Beard was the first to notice, a protective growl echoing from deep in his throat causing Sherlock to freeze.

"Wha is it boy?" Sherlock quickly scanned the room, suddenly remembering the feeling of eyes following him in the court yard, the feeling of not being alone.

The lyrics delivered in a shrill falsetto caused a shiver to run down the boy's back. Under his hand Sherlock could feel Red Beard's heckles rise.

Sherlock's heart exploded against the ribs in his chest.

This could not be…

His throat seemed to be closing up on him, or perhaps the air was too thin, either way he was gasping trying to get it to fill his lungs.

Something was coming.

A monster.

The song cut off suddenly, leaving an eerie stillness surrounding the boy and his dog.

Sherlock worked up the nerve to move. He could hear Red Beard whimper slightly in his left ear, the dog's Setter disposition making itself known despite his desire to protect his friend, and he wanted to comfort him. He was the captain after all. Red Beard was his responsibility, his to protect.

"It's alrigh boy we're—." The reassurance died on his lips as another, more ghastly, mirthful falsetto began to sing with glee. It flowed down the stairs before them, its source within the palace.

_The itsy-bitsy Sherlock_

_He had a look about_

_Inside his brain_

_So John boy wouldn't pout_

_Let's have some fun_

_And let's have some pain_

_And the itsy-bitsy Sherlock_

_Will never come out again_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please don't hate me!
> 
> Also I made myself cry while writing the bit about Red Beard. I miss my dog.
> 
> Please let me know what you think and thank you for reading.
> 
> On an unrelated note I'm becoming an adviser for a club at my middle school, and have decided on a Doctor Who theme because of the amount of t-shirts I see about the show in the halls and because I am a huge Whovian. If you guys have any ideas of what we could do (activities that won't break the bank; teacher's pay and all that) please private message me and let me know! I would appreciate it :)


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry this has taken so long to get to you. This is IEP season for me and with getting the Doctor Who Club up and running and everything else I have not had much time to write. Thank you for all of your patients, comments, and kudos. Enjoy!

If you were to ask those who knew John Hamish Watson to describe him in one word about a third would choose that of gentleman. He was known to be kind with his patience and could easily flip the charm switch on then speaking to the fairer sex. His army buddies had not nicked named him Three Continents Watson because of his tours after all.

"What the HELL do you think you're doing?"

At this moment though, John Watson's libido was the farthest thing from his mind. He had encroached on Dr. Stapleton's personal space to the point where, because of their respective heights, the two physicians stood nose to nose. With any other woman John would have only been this close after a date, waiting with the hope of a kiss which may lead to more later. Now the solider held back another passion, one he never felt at the end of a successful date (which admittedly were few and far between) but was well acquainted with all the same. It was the same sensation that welled hot like a fire in his stomach when a comrade had been threatened. Defend, defend, defend, coursed through his veins as his adrenal glands saturated his blood with adrenaline. Yes, he knew it well, had felt it many times before, in far off deserts and on the dark streets of London.

A whimper from the nearby bed joined the chorus of the disco song pouring from concealed speakers.

"Turn it off." John ordered levelly. His mandible clicked at the end of the command, a sign of the immense pressure his molars suddenly found themselves beneath in his clenched jaws.

Stapleton inhaled a flustered breath. She had expected some kind of reaction, but the irate intent in the seemingly harmless man's eyes was rather disquieting.

"Dr. Watson I-."

"—I said turn it off, now." The calm authority, Stapleton realized, was a sign. A signal as clear as the patterns on a snake's back or the roar of a bear, back off, don't press me, it screamed. With shaking fingers she sent the termination code, _Stayin' Alive_ cut off three lengthy seconds later.

"Now get out." John growled. The scientist was finding it difficult to associate this man whose eerie calm was comparable to that of an oncoming storm to the one who had worn his jumper not five minutes before, who had sat next to the subject looking small and out of his depth.

"Subject Two-." She froze as the other doctor's fury visibly grew.

" **Sherlock** is no longer your concern." The solider seethed. His whole body shook with barley held back wrath. "Now. Get. Out."

John breathed a sigh of relief when the woman scuttled out the door, closing it in her wake.

He turned his focus back to Sherlock, his best friend, the great detective, the little boy, who lay whimpering on the hospital cot, as his EEG and heart monitor pinged with urgency.

"Oh God, Sherlock." John rasped, stepping closer to the bed as tears pricked his eyes. The blonde fell into the chair next to the bed. Knowing he needed to help, but unsure where to even begin.

XXX

"Well well well, look who's finally come home to play." Sherlock gasped at the man descending the stairs. He was dressed impeccably even as he brushed a piece of invisible lint off the shoulder of his suit coat. He stopped a step from the bottom and rolled his head upon his neck, causing vertebrae to pop. Sherlock shivered. Something about the man did not seem right. The way he moved reminded the boy of the lizard's he and John saw at the zoo, but the gleam in his eye gave him the distinct impression of a spider. Really he did not seem like a man at all.

"Who…who are you?"

The man's mouth dropped in mock shock. "Why Shirley I'm hurt." He stepped forward and began to circle the boy and his dog with slow, calculated steps. Shark, Sherlock added this predator to the steadily growing list of animals which described the male. "You've forgotten me? After all we've been through? Here I thought we had a special connection." A frown now adorned the adult's face though it did not match his lilting tone.

Red Beard let out a growl, even as Sherlock felt him quiver under his arms. Whoever this was his setter did not trust him.

Sherlock cleared his throat, trying to stop his voice from quivering. "It's not just you. I forgot lots of things."

"Hmmm, that does explain quite a lot." The be-suited figure tapped his lips with his index finger. Sherlock got the distinct feeling he was being mocked. "Everything has gone rather topsy turby in here after all." He circled the two once more before stopping in front of the curly haired boy. A feral smile crept across the tanned face. "Well I suppose it is time for a reintroduction then. After all, we were once so close. Like two peas in a pod" He stuck out his hand to Sherlock who looked at it wearily. Seeing at the boy's hesitation the man's hand ensnared the small arm in a vice like grip. Sherlock let out a started gasp, surprised to feel a sensation like fire spread from where the man's manicured nails dug into his skin.

He was in his mind. This wasn't real. It shouldn't hurt.

"Oh Shirley," the man chuckled, "haven't you ever heard of mind over matter? Of course your head can hurt you." He cooed.

Sherlock tried to pull away. He heard Red Beard growling and barking next to him, but Sherlock could not focus on that. Instead his nose was filling with the pungent odor of chlorine while his skin began to feel tacky with humidity. Sherlock's breathe huffed in short frantic puffs. He continued to try to wrench his arm away even as he felt himself being pulled down in the undertow of memories. Before the palace blinked out Sherlock felt hot breath condense on his cheek and outer ear, an excited voice hissed against his ear drum. "Jim Moriarty, Hiiiii!"

XXX

When Sherlock opened his eyes he was met with a cool tile floor pressed against his cheek. The boy sat up rubbing his eyes; he was alone in a natatorium. He quickly scanned the area, but nothing seemed outwardly amiss. He could not be sure if it was the fact that he was alone in the darkened space or something…

"Oh come now, don't tell me that time with daddy John has softened your brain that much." Sherlock whipped around to find the man, Moriarty standing next to him. "That would be quite the disappointment if he's infected you with his… ordinary." Moriarty gave a playful shudder as he let his eyes drift over Sherlock's body. The boy could feel the trail like slime at it worked its way from his head to his toes.

"John's not ordinary." Sherlock murmured, trying to ignore man next to him.

"Oh but he is Sherlock. Just wait for the show to begin and you'll see."

The conversation was interrupted by a door disengaging loudly, the bang of it echoing through the open area.

"Brought you a little getting-to-know-you present." A deep voice boomed, drawing the boy's attention. A figure walked into the space, expensive shoes clicking on the tile. "Oh, that's what it's all been for, hasn't it? All your little puzzles; making me dance – all to distract me from this."

"But that's," Sherlock gasped feeling his mouth go dry.

"You," Moriarty smirked. "Right on time, but then this did already happen so…"

Sherlock stood transfixed as he watched his adult form turn in a slow circle as he waited for a response. He cannot breathe. The oddest sensation had begun to take place, even as he watched the scene before him the boy could feel his emotions sync with those of his future self. Pride and excitement bloom in his chest and he can hear the constant stream of thoughts running through his head. Sherlock winced. Maybe in the future he had found a way to control his thoughts, but if Sherlock thought his brain was loud now, he could not imagine living with the one he has in the future. A whimper escaped his mouth as he realized that no one knew he was there. He had even escaped the detection of John.

Halfway through adult Sherlock's turn a changing room door opened. He looked over his shoulder, and the boy followed his gaze to see John walk through the entry and into the pool area, wrapped tightly in a jacket with his hands tucked into the pockets.

"John?" The child squeaked, feeling his heart trying to dig its way up his throat.

"Evening." John stated. His eyes stayed locked upon his adult self and Sherlock had to remind himself that John could not see him, that this was all a memory. "This is a turn-up, isn't it, Sherlock?"

Sherlock's stomach dropped out. He ripped his eyes from John to look back at himself. He could feel a tingling numbness starting at his scalp, moving down his neck, and spreading through his chest and arms. Sherlock could see the shock on his own older face.

"John. What the hell ...?"

"Bet you never saw this coming."

Sherlock suddenly knew what the creeping feeling was: betrayal. He had trusted John, but he should have known, no one could stand him and here he had believed that he had made a friend. Stupid. He had been so stupid.

"No!" The boy screamed placing his hands over his ears and trying to dispel the adult's thoughts from his own. His voice echoed off the walls but no one reacted to the outburst. John was his friend. John took care of him, was there for him. "John!" Sherlock tried again despite knowing it was of no use.

"He can't hear you sweetheart." Moriarty intoned as he inspected his nails. Sherlock had been so caught up in trying to block out the overflow of foreign emotion that he had missed much of the exchange. When he looked up again it was because of another vaguely familiar voice joining the scene.

"I gave you my number. I thought you might call."

"Ah!" The man next to Sherlock lit up. "Now the show can really begin!"

XXX

The room was engulfed in a symphony of beeping. The monitors had gone mad, beeping with a manic intensity that spoke of the coursing river of the boy's veins. The EEG was screaming. Blearing of anyone who would listen that Sherlock's Gamma waves were out of flux, they bounced to and fro- a testament to the chaos inside the boy's head. John was sure everyone in the building could hear the machinery. John figured Stapleton had spread the word to stay clear, because when John stuck his head out the door to look for assistance he found the hall vacant.

Finding himself alone, the doctor hovered above the hospital cot. The monitors showed that Sherlock's heart rate and blood pressure were through the roof.

Forget about finding Sherlock's memories, John thought to himself, at this rate the child's body was not going to last much longer.

Sherlock Holmes was panicking, his mind and body tearing themselves about and John found his head was already running calculations, taking in all the information and factoring how many minutes the boy had before he seized or succumbed to a stroke.

Bullocks to Stapleton and her supposition, Sherlock was already in pain, touch could only quell the rising fire.

"Sherlock," John whispered as he nudged the boy's shoulder with shaking hand.

No answer.

"Sherlock? Mate can you hear me?" John ran his hand over the child's sweaty brow, his patient's only response being a quiet moan which the doctor may have imagined.

The soldier scooped up the boy, instantly feeling the energy thrumming through tense limbs, the wisp of a hospital gown clinging to the child's body.

"Come on Lock." John breathed, trying to hold back the tears which threatened to fall. "You have to wake up now." Not getting any response, John cradled his friend with one arm as his other hand came up the squeeze the bridge of his nose.

John was not a fool. He knew his and Sherlock's lives were dangerous. That one or both of them would probably meet their end because of a case, but the fact these could be his best friend's last moments…

No.

John was not going to let that happen.

He could fix this; all he had to do was calm Sherlock down.

The question was how. How to sooth a man who had once shot a wall out of boredom? "Right. Simple then." John murmured.

Feeling slightly selfish, John wished Mycroft was awake. That the man who had grown up with Sherlock, who surely had offered his best friend security throughout his life, had experience comforting the boy in his arms, was by his side in the battle now.

But that was not the case. John was alone; he was Sherlock's only hope.

In the hopes of making the room more soothing John unhooked the heart monitor and muted the EEG. The constant beeping stopped and John at least, felt he could breathe a little easier in their absence. In the silence John hummed and rubbed the boy's back, yet the actions had no affect -Sherlock was in too deep.

John wracked his brain trying to find something; anything which would offer his friend comfort. His mind, however, was working against him. Whenever he closed his eyes images of Sherlock, of the lively boy he had been, filled the darkness.

_The look of concentration on the child's face as John instructed him on tying his shoes._

_The feeling of a small hand wrapped protectively in his own as they walked through the cool air to the park._

_Sherlock laughing as John pushed him on a swing._

_The weight of the small body lying on his chest, relaxed in deep and peaceful sleep_. A memory which had been created only hours before, but was so very different than what was happening now.

John tried to suck in a breath but found his lungs constricted instead of expanding, forcing a choked sob from his throat instead.

_"_ _Come on John!"_ The deep baritone in his mind rumbled. _"THINK!"_

"I'm trying." John gasped his throat and chest burning with emotion. He wrapped both arms tighter around the overwrought body and dropped his face into the messy wet locks, still covered by the mesh of electrodes. He could feel the Sherlock's heart racing through the paper thin medical gown, could taste the salt of sweat, born of fear and mixing with that of his own tears.

John realized he was crying openly now, sobs wracking his body. The jerk of the weeping and the force with which he was holding his best friend caused the soldier's shoulder to ache, while the helplessness of the situation triggered the twinge of his leg to make itself known in a way it had not in years.

He was failing his best friend. Useless. He felt completely and utterly useless.

John Watson had only felt this hopeless a handful of times in his life. The first being when he had returned to London after the war, then in the years after Sherlock's faked suicide before he met Mary, and again after the tragedy which had taken his beloved wife and child from him. In both the first and the last, Sherlock the self-proclaimed sociopath had been there for the doctor, comforting his friend in his own way.

When John had felt inadequate Sherlock found an exciting case which gave John the adrenaline and self-worth he so desperately needed.

If the doctor could not find the will to eat, the detective would drag him out to a restaurant claiming a stakeout and insist John eat so they, "did not draw attention to themselves." It was often not until John had taken his first bite when he would suddenly realize he was famished.

And then there were the nights when the solider had been awakened by his mind replaying the deaths of his comrades and later on his family over and over again, burning the blood into his retinas and screams in his eardrums. During those hours of darkness the voice of the detective's violin would waltz up to his room, wrapping itself around John as a blanket of secure familiarity as it lulled him back into a dreamless rest.

A man who so many deemed heartless had known how to comfort his friend and flat mate through the worst of times, and here, when this brilliant man needed him most John was letting him dow—

His violin.

John's head snapped up.

Of course.

In all the years John had known Sherlock his violin had been a constant. Whether working through a difficult case or simply playing while staring out the window the detective's violin was more than an instrument, it was an extension of the man's soul.

When Sherlock chose to play (because he just as often tortured the poor piece of carved wood) it was magical.

With a shaking hand John reached into his back pocket and pulled out his phone.

He had recorded his friend playing on numerous occasions; even though the distance that separated his room from the concert left the resulting files sounding tinny John had been secretly proud to have recorded the evidence of Sherlock's heart without the great detectives' knowledge. It was not until a day when the doctor forgot his phone at the flat while leaving for the surgery that John realized this was not the case. Upon returning that evening he found Sherlock gone and his missing phone resting on the coffee table a sticky note attacked to its screen. It read:

_Took a whole three minutes to guess your password. Still insufferably easy, but I suppose you're getting better. –SH_

After rolling his eyes John had unlocked his phone to see what kind of havoc the mad man had wreaked on his device (after all it had taken him an eternity to change the language from Swahili back to English the last time). He had been surprised then to find that only his secret recordings had been disposed of only to be replaced by much cleaner versions. John had not been sure if it was Sherlock's vanity which caused him to make the improved recordings, or if it was one of the man's off handed gifts. John had never asked, and Sherlock for his credit, never brought it up.

These were the files John's finger hovered over now, shaking with a mix drink of anxiety and hope.

"Please." John breathed, sending up one last prayer. "Please let this work."

John's thumb fell on the play button. The recording crackled to life before the haunting pull of the bow pulled across the violin's strings.


	21. Chapter 21

_Why would you listen to me? I'm just your_ _friend._

_I don't have "friends!"_

_No. Wonder why?_

_I'm a high-functioning sociopath. Do your research._

_This is my friend, John Watson._

_Friend?_

_Colleague._

_There are lives at stake, Sherlock! Actual human live— Just, just so I know, do you care about that at all?_

_Will caring about them help save them?_

_Nope!_

_Then I'll continue not to make that mistake._

"No." The boy gasped images and phrases choking, squeezing, and constricting his very being. He could not breath, could not move, could barely think as previous emotions and thoughts overtook him.

_Don't make people into heroes, John. Heroes don't exist, and if they did, I wouldn't be one of them._

"No, please no." Sherlock could feel wind pushing the curls against his brow. The sounds of London wafted up towards him, but the boy kept his eyes pinched shut. A feeling of dread had been pooling in his belly for what felt like an eternity.

Where was he? How had he gotten here? Everything was all jumbled up in his head. He was a child lost and frightened, and yet, and yet he was also Sherlock Holmes: Consulting Detective, a man apart from the rest, a man who needed no one.

Sherlock scrunched his forehead in concentration as tears began to leak down his cheeks. All the while his mantra of no and please continued to mix with into the whistle of the wind.

"Oh yes, yes, yes." A voice lilted against the boy's ear.

Sherlock's eyes flew open as hands gripped his shoulders and spun him around. "Oh, come now Shirley." The owner of the voice cooed. "No need for tears. Uncle Jim's got you now." Brown eyes swept hungrily over the boy caged in the man's arms, gleaming as the spider considered how to devour its pray, and suddenly the child knew.

"Moriarty." Sherlock gasped.

"Ah, good you've finally figured it out." A predatory smile split the monster's mask, crumpling the welcoming veneer which had only just veiled its monstrosity. "I can't tell you how badly it hurt that you didn't remember me." The criminal's fingers dug deep into Sherlock's arms as he stuck his bottom lip out in a mock pout. "Why it must have been so hard on you, a bit like losing your right hand I imagine, but it's okay," The serpent rubbed its head into Sherlock's curls inhaling deeply, claiming its prize as he hissed, "I've got you now."

'Let me go!" Sherlock struggled, trying to keep the fear and panic out of his voice. He had to get away… he had to find…

"JOHN!" Sherlock gasped through his tears. Struggling was only causing the crushing clutch to close around him tighter, but he had to try. He had to fight.

A chuckle arose from the chest pressed tightly to the boy's back. It quickly twisted into something manic making Sherlock's skin crawl and the hair at the base of his neck to straighten.

"You think Johnny boy can save you?! Oh Shirley I adore you like this! So innocent and pocket sized." The criminal somehow tightened his already crushing hold causing Sherlock's ribs to creak. "Why I could just eat you up." Moriarty growled through his teeth, forcing a gurgled sob out of the boy. "You must know of course that your little pet couldn't save you, even if he wanted to."

XXX

"Sh…sh….sh," John hushed despite the lack of sound coming from the child. "Come on Sherlock, you're going to be alright." John turned back to his phone to up the volume of the concerto before continuing his round of the room. "You have to be alright."

"Doctor Watson?" John spun towards the door to find a Mycroft's assistant standing in the entrance way. The usually impertinent woman cringed at the disturbance of her voice in the room.

"Is Mycroft awake then?" John turned away from the door. He had not seen Anthea or whatever she was calling herself since they had arrived at this facility and he was not in the mood to deal with her right now.

"Not yet, although the doctors think he'll be awake soon." She came into the room passing John a bottle of water. "We're two down; best not lose you to dehydration."

John reluctantly laid his best friend on the bed and accepted the water, downing it in one go before bringing his hands up to scrub is face.

"I must have scared the staff off pretty well if they're sending you in." It was meant as a joke, but the doctor could not find the proper inflection, causing it to come across flat.

"They're cowering around the corner. You should have seen the way they looked at me when I came down," she chuckled dryly, "I don't think they're expecting me to come back." Anthea came farther into the room, straining her neck to look at the youngest Holmes. "I assume it's not going well then." She dropped the back of her hand lightly onto the boy's forehead, noting the clamminess before letting it drift down to his pale cheek.

John silently contemplated his now empty bottle in response.

"My sister has a gaggle of these things, children I mean. Even my brother has one, or is it two now? Either way Mum keeps hinting that I should have some soon, not getting any younger. God I hate them."

John's head shot up. He felt the sudden urge to push this woman away from Sherlock. Anthea smirked, sensing the stir in the air.

"It's nothing personal, she explained, "I can put on a smile and deal with the hugs and I've been told I give the bests gifts, but I cannot stand to be around them too long. They're so… needy."

"Well I suppose you've made good life choices then." John murmured, pulling Sherlock into his arms once more.

"Yes," Anthea agreed, "I suppose I have." She smiled using her hand to push the boy's head onto John's shoulder. "And so have you."

She disappeared out the door and around the corner, the clicking of her heels causing John to hold his friend all the tighter.

XXX

"You see my dear little detective. John could never understand, could never know what you truly are. What you could possibly need." The mad man stood up, twirling around with a dancing bounce in his step. "But then no one ever could. Not Mummy or Daddy or even big brother…"

Sherlock watched the skyline of London spin around him as Moriarty's arms pressed tightly under his ribs.

"They don't understand you, and how could they? Boring. All of them." The besuited man stopped spinning and roughly turned the boy to face him. "You must remember by now," the manic brown eyes bore into Sherlock's. "You and I little one, we're cut from the same cloth. See?"

Moriarty spun him so Sherlock was again facing outward as he folded his own legs like an excited child waiting for a story to begin.

"This is my favorite part." Moriarty whispered into Sherlock's ear.

Before their audience stood a man Sherlock knew as himself and the monster who currently held him.

"Oh, you think you can make me stop the order?" They memory of Moriarty sneered. "You think you can make me do that?"

"Yes." Sherlock watched himself smirk. "So do you."

"Sherlock, your big brother and all the King's horses couldn't make me do a thing I didn't want to."

"Yes, but I'm not my brother, remember? I am you. Prepared to do anything. Prepared to burn. Prepared to do what ordinary people won't do. You want me to shake hands with you in hell, I shall not disappoint you."

"Nah," the mad man shook his head. "You talk big. Nah. You're ordinary. You're ordinary. You're on the side of the angels."

"Oh, I may be on the side of the angels, but don't think for one second that I am one of them."

"There it was," Sherlock could hear a smirk oozing into the man's voice. "That was the moment you stole my heart Sherlock Holmes, the moment you admitted it not just to me, but to yourself. Oh, it was glorious."

"No. You're not. I see. You're not ordinary." Sherlock watched something like strangled joy slide across the shorter man's face. Something was wrong. Sherlock was not sure if he was feeling it himself or if the emotion was leaking from the him in the memory, but something was about to happen.

" No. You're me. You're me. Thank you. Sherlock Holmes. Thank you. Bless you." The two men clasped hands and dissipated into the ether.

"You see Sherlock. You said it yourself. We're meant to be together."

"No." Sherlock strained, fighting against the hold of the man and the growing tightness in his chest. It was not like the other sensations he had felt once he had entered his mind palace. This tension, this agony was deeper. It consumed him until it was hard to think, hard to breath.

"John," the boy rasped. "John help. Please."

"Still going on for your John then? Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock." Moriarty clucked. "You're going to have to let go of him. No John where you're going, not this time."

Moriarty had been swinging him back and forth like a rag doll and Sherlock ad learned to stop fighting the movements. The more he struggled, the more he tightened his muscles, the greater the pain why he was swung back the other way. He did not have the energy for it anymore.

Moriarty was murmuring excitedly, but had finally stopped his jerky dance to instead sway in the breeze. Sherlock watched the horizon with strained breath. Strange, the sky was going out, like lights in a warehouse. Sherlock had been in a warehouse before… he was sure of it, but then it didn't seem important. Not anymore.

Another block of sky darkened, and then another, casting the city below it in shadows. The sounds were starting to quiet too, the honking of cars and din of people dying away.

Dying.

XXX

"Sherlock. Lock come on. Please."

John checked the boy's pulse, a moot move considering the boy's pulse was visible in thrum of his veins. His breaths were coming out in gasps, wracking the small body with each inhale and exhale.

"Damn it." John mumbled. He began digging through the drawers and cabinets in the room. There had to be something, anything to slow down Sherlock's heart. His legs felt like liquid and his entire body shook violently.

Nothing. There was nothing but saline bags.

"DAMN IT!" John roared. He spun around angrily, but as had been true for hours now he found himself and Sherlock alone.

The boy gasped once more. It was weak and tired. The sound a body made when it was coming towards its end. John had heard that sound before, it haunted his dreams. John did not spare another thought before hurdling them both down the hall.

XXX

"You are such a tease you know." Moriarty had sat on the edge of the roof letting his and Sherlock's legs dangle off the edge. His chin resting snugly atop the boy's crown of curls.

"This isn't the first time we've been here. You and me."

Sherlock grumbled. He wanted to do more. To pull away from the man holding him, but moving was difficult. Instead he watched the city below him as it fell into shadow and silence. Each block going out one by one.

"Last time was close. SOOOOOoooo close, but you left me in here. All alone. Not to worry though. I've got you this time Shirley." He hugged the boy tighter for emphasis, kicking his legs with glee. "And I'm never, ever letting you go."

XXX

"Sir. Sir, you can't be here."

John stormed passed the nurse without a thought. He turned one corner and then the next. Staff stood to the side as he continued his search, the gasping huffs of air only spurring him forward. Finally his eyes fell on the person he was searching for.

"Doctor Watson," Stapleton breathed obviously taken aback by his presence.

"A sedative," John growled. "Now."

"Doctor Watson. I understand your concern, but let me remind you-."

"No." John seethed, his entire body vibrating with barely contained anger. "I don't care what you have to say, or what you're research says. This is my best friend and I will not have him dying," John stumbled on the word. He had not allowed himself to consider the possibility until right then, but he could very well be losing Sherlock. "I will not just stand by while he suffers." John cleared his throat. "A sedative now."

Stapleton stared at him for a moment before turning her head. "Jacob? Get a sedative for Doctor Watson. Stat."

A young man scurried away. John watched him go, shocked to see his request met. A hand landed on his arm causing John to jump. Anthea stood next to him, her lips were moving but John could not make out her words over the sudden ringing in his ears. She continued to talk, unaware of the sound encompassing the solider. The man, Jacob, returned sedative in hand. He approached the two and began fussing with Sherlock, but instead of administering the medication, the syringe fell limp at his side.

"What are you doing?" John stammered. Give him the sedative.

"John." Anthea was saying.

"No. Just a moment. Give him the sedative he needs it…"

"John."

"What?!" The doctor yelled.

"He isn't breathing."

John froze. He could feel the small body warm against him, but its chest was no longer rising.

"Nonononono." John breathed dropping down to his knees and pulling the child away from him. "Sherlock? Sherlock! Come on mate!" He laid the body upon the linoleum floor, dropping his ear to Sherlock's face as his fingers found a pulse point. He counted five seconds. The longest five seconds of his life, as he waited for soft gusts of breaths that never came. A pulse was there but, just almost. It was nearly too soft for John's practiced hands to find.

John started giving chest compressions. He could not be sure when Sherlock had stopped breathing, but he knew that to keep brain damage at a minimum he had to act quickly.

John began barking orders. Vaguely he was aware of the movement around him, of people following his commands, but that was all on the peripheries. He focus was all on the boy before him, the boy to whom he was caregiver and best friend, the boy who may never open his eyes again.

"Come on Sherlock." John Choked as he reached thirty chest compressions and went down to deliver two rescue breaths. "Breathe."

XXX

Sherlock opened his eyes. He must have closed them, but when? He blinked to clear his eyes, bringing up his hands to rub at them when blinking did not do the job.

He sat up, only to have his head investigated by a wet nose. Sherlock turned towards the source to bury his head into a red fur coat.

"Ah good, you're up." A deep baritone rumbled. It bounced off the walls and at the sound Red Beard ran toward to source, tail wagging happily.

Sherlock watched in shock as a tall figure bowed to rub the dog, his face blocked by a mess of dark curl, but Sherlock knew him instantly.

"You're…you're me." The boy rasped as he stood upon his shaking legs.

"Yes. Been meaning to talk to you for a bit, but I got a little distracted on the way. Apologies for that."

The man crossed the hall in three easy gates stopping inches before the boy so he had to crane his neck to see the other's face.

"Sherlock Holmes." The man grinned causing a twinkle to appear in his eye. He extended his hand and waited until Sherlock took it in his own before giving it a firm shake. "Pleasure to meet you."


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I'm late. Sorry about that. Thank you for your patients, favorites, comments, and kudos. Once again thank you to my lovely beta Cassie. I hope you guys like this chapter. I'm not sure I like it, but I've tried to tweak it for so long that I though it was only fair I finally post.

"So, then –you're me." Sherlock scrutinized the man before him. He certainly looked like the one John had shown him in pictures, "The proper me I mean."

"Mmmm, no." The man scrunched up his face as though he was thinking, but there was something mocking about it. "But then you're not either."

"What do you mean?"

The man-the not Sherlock narrowed his eyes. Gloved hands clasping behind his coat covered back even as a smirk pulled at his lips. "You and I. This," the man gestured to the palace around them. "Everything we see here, all of this is a construct. A mental representation of who Sherlock Holmes is. Everything he has experienced, thought, and felt in the entirety of his existence up until this very point."

Sherlock's chest rattled with a sharp intake of breath as the words hit him. He could feel his lungs expand and diagram extend. His heart pounded sending blood to flood is extremities. Fight or flight response. Very human, very real.

"Oh can we not do this?" The baritone voice shook Sherlock from his thoughts.

"Wh-what?" Sherlock blinked, trying to clear the mist which had begun to seep into his thoughts. He was feeling murky, like the park pond when ducks dove for a piece of soggy bred and stirred up the mud on their way down.

"The whole questioning my existence thing." The other man spewed as he flared his arms. "Philosophy is tedious and beside the point WE DON'T HAVE TIME."

"Time?" The boy did not know when, but his body had become heavy. It was as though he were slowly turning into stone, but it was warm and inviting. Sherlock closed his eyes. Just for a minute. Just to…

"NO NO NO!" Sherlock snapped his eyes open to find the construct's nose inches away from his own, eyes aglow with a savage determination. "They've given us something; a sedative most likely. The body's blood pressure must have sky rocketed after the last encounter."

"With Moriarty you mean." Sherlock slurred. "Why's he here anyway?"

"Synapsis rewiring."

"Hmm?"

"Focus Sherlock. This place, our mind is a machine. The human brain is a connection of electronic impulses firing and receiving signals at breakneck speeds. The problem is most people don't bother to learn how to code. They use the original program, never updating, deleting, or defragmenting. The just keep cramming more and more in until the whole mess is a jumble of wires."

"Because of this, all thoughts connect to one another via a small similarity. Any sound, smell, or feeling can lead from one idea, memory, or belief to another. And thus the human being grows, develops, learns, and becomes based on its programing. What happens then, when a virus is introduced to the program? It is the same as when an infection takes hold of a vine. Once it finds a foothold it does as it is meant to do. The infection will spread until it infects and kills the host. A computer virus such as this, it rides the connections from thought, to emotion, to experience, preening synapsis as it goes, sometimes filling this space with new malicious data, or such as in this case, leaving space for new programing to come in and fill the openings."

"Or at least that's what it was supposed to do, but what happens when a virus comes up against a new operating system? Something it was not programmed to encounter? A different type of software? An unforeseen obstacle? It would not be able to work at its optimum ability leading to unexpected outcomes. Since Sherlock Holmes continued to catalog and organize information past the age of synaptic pruning his mental makeup did not match that of the general populace. His mind is an uncontrollable variable."

Sherlock looked up, surprised as the man scooped him into his arms and began to stride down one of the jointed corridors.

"Rest if you must, but we have to get going." Came the murmured explanation.

The other's arms held him tight as the baritone voice continued to rumble low in his chest. No longer lecturing, but mumbling to himself. His words were spoken too quickly and quietly to understand, but Sherlock knew each one. Felt them deep within his being, anticipated each one before it left his mouth. And suddenly, he knew.

"We're part of him. Aren't we?" Sherlock lifted his hand to pull on the man's wool coat causing his carrier to look down upon him.

"Yes, you and I we're parts of a whole torn asunder but with tethers still connected. Bonds left unbroken or at the very least intact enough to be strengthened from my end."

"Myc."

"Yes."

"And John?"

"I'm still trying to figure out how. We hadn't been acquainted in your time but none the less a connection is there and remained."

Sherlock shrugged. "John is exceptional."

A deep rumbled echoed throughout the hall as the other Sherlock laughed. "Yes. I suppose he is."

XXX

His little brother's face was a pale boat adrift in a sea of blue hospital sheets. If he were a man of lesser intelligence, Mycroft mused, he could believe the boy to be resting. Take comfort in the rise and fall of breath in small lungs and tell himself that the closed lids spoke of a world of dreams and wonder. Unfortunately, Mycroft Holmes was one of the most intelligent men in England and had taught his brother everything the younger knew about deduction.

Where others might see a relaxed face, Mycroft's eyes noted dark shadows under restless veiled eyes. He observed small lips, chapped and bitten in a way that indicated strife. The slow inhalation of breath spoke of the compressions young ribs had endured. Automatically Mycroft began running ratios about the probability of either broken or bruised ribs. He did not like the numbers, but they nonetheless continued.

"Coffee." Doctor Watson intoned as he reentered the room. He passed one of the Styrofoam cups to the other man, who accepted it with a grunt before falling into the second chair.

Mycroft took a sip. The liquid was bitter and acidic causing his face to twist in annoyance.

"Yeah, it's swill." John agreed, taking a pull at his own cup and clearing his throat. "But it's hot and caffeinated, so-." The doctor's sentence tapered off leaving a thick silence between the two men.

Mycroft scrubbed at his face.

Four hours. He had given into his body's needs, closed his eyes on a living nightmare only to wake to find the world shattered. The Koreas were still separate, parliament stood strong, and Mexico's cartels were relatively at bay, but his world had stopped spinning. Four hours, two hundred and forty minutes, and it could very well have killed his brother.

The monitor's beeped. A throng of sound assaulting his senses, not that it mattered.

Caring is not an advantage. Father had beaten the mantra into his head until it became Mycroft's way of life. He had always been able to keep himself separate. The Ice Man, people called him. A mere mention of his name caused heads of state to quiver, with a smirk he could bring down countries. He had thought himself divorced of all emotion, but he had never felt so numb before, his chest had never been so hallow.

"In your professional opinion doctor, what chances does he have?" Mycroft reached out his hand to entwine it with his brother's. The digits lay in his, warm but lacking in any other discernable sign of life.

John sighed next to him. Tired and uncertain, Mycroft's mind supplied. "As the time in a coma lengthens the chances of recovery diminish, but then this isn't a normal coma. I'm sorry Mycroft. I have no idea."

There was nothing he could do. His resources, connections, carefully cultivated image, even his intelligence, nothing could help his brother now. Sherlock had gone to a place he could not follow. Mycroft had never felt so helpless in his life.

XXX

Dust rested thickly on tables and window panes as the duo persistent deeper into the belly of the castle, each step drew a creak from the long disused floor. Cobwebs hung in wisps from the ceiling, dust motes danced in gray light emitted through the dirtied glass.

Then there was the yearning. The plea that seeped from the surrounding walls called to him, pulled at Sherlock's insides until an ache was all he could feel inside.

"Can we fix it?" The boy asked as they continued down the hall.

"Hmm?"

"The palace." Sherlock answered before scrunching his face in thought. "How do you know all of this anyway?"

"What do you think I've been doing here? Sitting back and twiddling my thumbs?" By the inflection of the man's voice Sherlock knew he was not supposed to answer the question.

The man continued. "I still had access to auditory and visual input. That, coupled with Sherlock's already existing knowledge allowed me to ascertain the most likely series of events."

"So you're guessing." Sherlock huffed.

"I do NOT guess."

"I guess," Sherlock added shifting in the man's arms. It was hard to stay awake when he felt so warm and heavy, but he continued to fight against the pull of darkness. "So you must too."

The elder man seemed affronted. "I preform tests based upon an educated hypothesis to form working theories from which I make observations and then deductions."

"Right. Guessing." A giggle worked its way from the boy's throat as the man's grumble.

After his chortles had quieted the boy began rubbing the wool sleeve around him between his fingers anything to distract from the pull. "How come—."

"How many questions are you going to bombard me with?"

Sherlock thought for a minute. "Lots. John says there's nothing wrong with asking questions."

"That's what I was afraid of." The child turned around. There was something in his voice that made Sherlock think the man was answering two questions with the simple phrase. "Your questions go on then." He dismissed with a flick of his head.

"Right." The boy intoned, eyeing the man. "How come I can't see your thoughts? When Moriarty touched me-," Sherlock clenched his eyes shut which did nothing to stop the images skimming across his mind.

"Were you not listening?" The adult sighed. "The drug's whole purpose was to tear Sherlock Holmes apart and leave a space to rewrite who he is. While Red Beard and Moriarty were both representations of memories which were in turn are linked to other remembrances, you and I are depictions of Holmes' Ego I suppose, although Freud's theories lack competent validity for my personal liking."

Sherlock snorted, he agreed: Freud did make many assertions in his work. Wait when had he-?

"Oh, you've started to notice. Good."

"Notice what?"

The other Sherlock smirked. "Being here, in this place the knowledge has begun to leach into you. Frankly I'm relieved. Your speech impediments would have become an annoyance if allowed to persist."

Sherlock let the insult go as he gazed around them. The castle, as they continued on became more decrepit by the minute. The elder had to sidestep fallen beams and avoid missing planks on the floor. Every few yards a room would appear, often the door hung from its hinges, or lay in splinters on the floor. Where a room could be seen beyond its egress it was in disarray, caused by apparent neglect. It whispered to him, begging, imploring him to fix it. Sherlock quivered. What could he do?

"But it's ruined." Sherlock buried his face into the man's dress shirt, feeling the ache in his chest intensify. This older him smelled of tobacco smoke, sandalwood and formaldehyde. He did not think John would approve of smoking, but there was familiarity about it that was comforting.

"Yes, damage has been done and knowledge lost. Unfortunately my presence was not enough to stop the decay, but it can be rebuilt."

"How?" The boy mumbled not bothering to remove his head. He did not want to witness the degeneration around them, he did not want to consider what could have been saved if he had come back sooner, if he had not been so freighted.

"That's why I've brought you here. This is the first step."

Sherlock turned his head until he could crack one eye open. What he saw caused him to gasp in wonder.

XXX

"How will I inform Mummy?"

The question drew John out of his thoughts. He and Mycroft had stopped speaking awhile ago and a pained silence had since filled the room. The doctor stretched and drew out his phone. Only ten minutes had elapsed since he had last checked, John scrubbed his face. "Sorry?"

The ginger was staring at the prone child in the bed. There was an emptiness in the man's eyes the doctor recognized. It was the look many of his comrades wore after a bad battle, when their brothers had been injured and died in the hot Afghani sun, the desert sand greedily steeling their blood to calm its thirst. John would forever remember that look of loss. The way those who survived seemed to leave a piece of themselves at the side of their fallen mates. The doctor felt his stomach lurch when he recognized the look on the British government's face and what it likely meant for Sherlock.

"She does not know. I assumed I would have everything in order before she could worry. Sherlock has been horrid at keeping in contact since university so I thought- but now…" A sound similar to a sob broke off the man's sentence.

John opened his mouth only to close it again. What was he supposed to say? What could he say? The doctor could feel his own throat closing on him, the muscles in his jaw tightening until it felt as though his molars would crack under the pressure. He mind continued to fumble until his ears hit upon a minuet change in the symphony of machinery.

One of the beeps had doubled its tempo.

John's eyes snapped up to the screens. His stomach filled with an excited energy, lightness similar to a helium balloon rising on a warm day. He shot up from his chair. The doctor's body protested the sudden movement but he could not find it in him to care as he crossed to the medical instruments.

"What? Doctor Watson, what's happening?"

"I don't bloody believe it." John's eyes raced over the readings again. It was impossible, but-. A startled chuckle escaped his lips as hope bloomed in his chest. "He's waking up." John turned to the other man, "Sherlock's waking up."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Please leave a comment if you feel inclined.
> 
> Oxford commas,
> 
> Nikola


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